


Exodus

by lavieenbelle



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, Angst with a Happy Ending, Drug Use, Eventual Smut, F/M, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy Smut, Hermione and draco referencing greek mythology, Hermione and draco talking about classic literature, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, I promise even if it seems bad they'll end up together eventually, Mental Health Issues, Mutual Pining, Not Beta Read, Protective Draco Malfoy, Whump, drunk Hermione is a disaster, hades and persephone anyone?, healthy mix of soft and toxic draco, is it possible to have too many metaphors I guess we're about to find out, look ik it's just another voldy wins au but I tried to make it original, no ron bashing in this household, technically a dramione story but honestly it’s theo nott’s world and we’re just living in it, the slowest slow burn I have ever written it's actually painful
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-15 08:07:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 58,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29310822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavieenbelle/pseuds/lavieenbelle
Summary: ❝Wars always began with quiet rebellion. Of that much, Hermione was capable. After all, her existence in and of itself was an act of revolution.❞In October of 1980, Lord Voldemort killed Harry Potter. Now, he rules with an iron fist, demanding sacrifice and obedience from purebloods while killing and enslaving Muggle-borns. Draco has been playing along: keeping his head down, staying in line, and doing everything he can to protect his friends and family.But he's reaching his breaking point.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 11
Kudos: 51





	1. the rosebud

She never meant to destroy everything.

And yet, there she stood, with ash on her fingers and smoke in her lungs, watching her childhood home go up in flames. She looked down at her shaking, soot-covered hands before clenching them into fists. She had more power than she thought. More than she wanted.

In a violent rhapsody, the roof caved in. She took a step back, helpless, unable to undo her destruction. Unable to do anything but watch her infernal creation destroy the only home she'd ever known.

She closed her eyes in her final act of autonomy. Not that it did her much good. Through her paper-thin eyelids, she could still see the shadows of the flames. She could still feel the hellish warmth, singeing her cheeks. She could still hear the beams crashing to the ground. Her only source of protection crumbled to ash before her. 

Creation and destruction had always gone hand in hand. 

Over the sound of her home collapsing, the screams of her neighbors, and the echoing sirens that were closing in on her, she could barely hear the small voice of reason that somehow still resided in the corner of her mind: _run._ Her body obeyed what her mind couldn't quite comprehend. She supposed she should have been used to the feeling by now: it had been happening for years. She couldn't control it. She didn't understand it. She would never escape it. 

Though the fire was an accident, it had become her last hope. Perhaps her parents would assume she'd perished. Maybe her memory would die with the last fading glow of the embers.

 _It's for the best,_ she thought, nearly tripping over her feet as she accelerated. Whatever was happening to her, she didn't want her parents involved.

She never meant to destroy everything. She'd only meant to destroy herself.

This was just as well. There might have been a way to make her parents forget— that would have saved them any heartache. But as easily as math and science and languages came to her, Hermione did not understand how her _abilities_ worked. She couldn't bring herself to call it _magic_. Magic implied a certain kind of whimsy. It evoked images of faeries and wands and pumpkins turning into carriages. Hermione only knew chaos.

As she ran down the street and into town, the soft yellow light from her neighborhood faded, replaced by blinding white streetlights and neon pub signs. The sirens and the screams abated, and Hermione slipped into the crowd and into anonymity.

She knew it was a mistake, fleeing. Cowardly, at best. Stupid, at worst.If she were truly brave, or even a little bit intelligent, she would have let herself be taken by the flames. Despite her best intentions, she still had a shred of self-protective impulse. 

"Hermione!"

Instinctively, she turned toward the sound of her name, but immediately regretted it. A group of old friends from school sat huddled beneath a heat lamp. Friends she hadn't seen in years; friends she wasn't sure she'd ever see again. 

She ducked her head and continued walking. Drops of sweat beaded her forehead and pooled in her underarms—even in the winter chill— like the fire had come from within her. She gritted her teeth and walked faster. When she reached the bus stop, she stepped into the shadow of the shelter. Drumming her fingers on her thighs, she paced the pavement, never straying from the darkness, like a lion trapped in a cage. 

A black cab drove past her, rustling a pile of spare newspapers that had collected at the curb. Dust and debris flew into the air, collecting in the corners of Hermione's eyes. She coughed, doubling over the waist, choking on the dust, on the smoke, on her own pride and ambition. 

The bus rolled up.

She stood. Forcing herself to swallow her coughs, Hermione patted her pockets. She'd forgotten change. She squeezed her eyes and clenched her fists, her fingernails digging into the soft flesh on the heels of her hands. She'd set her bloody home on fire, but she couldn't conjure 60 pence.

When the bus driver opened the door, she flashed an apologetic smile, coughing one last time. She took a step forward, grateful that the bus was empty, save for an elderly woman clutching a bag of groceries. "I'm afraid I don't have enough for the fare," she said, she hoped loud enough that the woman would hear her and perhaps offer to pay.

The man turned back to the road. "No fare, no ride," he replied gruffly. He reached for the handle to pull the door closed. Hermione pressed both hands against the doorway, propping it open. 

"I promise, I have a travelcard, I just left it at home," she said. There was no reason for the driver to believe her, but she really _did_ have an unlimited pass. Until it was lost to the flames, that is. If she ever returned to London, she was sure she'd make up for it.

The man shrugged, bleary-eyed, but adamant. "I have a route, kid."

Hermione felt her eyes fill with tears. She angrily swiped them away. How was _this_ the straw that broke the camel's back? She looked at the old lady, who stared out the window, unbothered by Hermione's strife. "Please," she turned back to the driver. "You _have_ to let me on."

The bus driver blinked. "Okay," he said with a shrug. Without another word, he looked away and shut the door. The bus pulled away from the curb.

As Hermione gripped the nearest pole to secure her balance, the tension in her shoulders released. _Okay?_ She stumbled to the nearest chair, before running her fingers through her knotted hair. She had gotten what she wanted, yet her stomach churned. Had the bus driver really had a change of heart? Or was the same sinister magic that had sent sparks flying from her fingers compelling him to obey her?

She sat silently, folding and unfolding her hands in her lap as she perched on the edge of her seat, watching the outskirts of London pass by through the window. Her fingers trembled. Her knee bounced. The taste of smoke still lingered behind her teeth.

She squinted at the twinkling lights, trying to decipher her location from the brief flashes of the skyline through the trees. She couldn't remember the last time she'd been this far south; she barely left her home anymore, except to go to work. The city was dangerous. Too many people. Too many buildings. Too many chances for everything to go horribly wrong. 

"Camden Town," the driver announced. Hermione smiled at the elderly woman as she gripped the railing. The old woman gripped her grocery bag tighter as she scanned Hermione's scorched jeans and tattered jacket. 

Hermione cleared her throat and tightened the strings on her hoodie. "Thank you," she whispered to the bus driver as she exited. Her power pulsed beneath her fingertips, threatening to expose her. That was the worst part of this _sorcery_ : its unpredictability. She had no idea how it would manifest. Sometimes, it was as innocuous as a flickering light switch or freezing a glass of boiling water.

Other times, she set her house alight.

She couldn't risk it. Camden was crawling with tourists and students. There were too many people to whom Hermione could cause irreparable damage. 

She needed to find him.

She burrowed her hands in her pockets and hung her head, speeding as briskly as she could without drawing any undue attention to herself. He'd asked her to only call on him if it was an emergency. Surely this qualified. She had nowhere else to go if it didn't.

The tips of her fingers heated up against her palms. She ran, her feet pounding against the cobblestone in time with her racing heart. Pushing through the throngs of people, she jogged in what she hoped was the direction of the address he'd given her, so many months ago.

As she ran, fear weighed down on, soaking her right through to the bone, like heavy rainfall. _What if he'd moved? What if he didn't remember her? What if he couldn't really help?_

She pushed forward, her lungs still burning from the smoke. 

She turned onto the street, surprised at how easily her mental map of London had returned to her. The buildings all looked the same: monotonous brown bricks, beaten-up doors, piles of trash lining the curb. But there it was. 28. The small, wooden number hung above the doorframe. Here _he_ was. 

She rapped on the door, hoping more than she had any right to hope that he was home, that he would be the one to answer. She licked her lips. She hadn't even considered the fact that he might have housemates, people who didn't know anything about their abilities. 

A few more seconds of agonizing waiting passed. Hermione's resolve weakened with each moment. Already preparing her next move, she took a step back, ready to slink back into the shadows. Her shoulders curled in on themselves. She'd beg for money on the street corner until she saved up for a bus ticket south, then squat in a remote, empty house until she learned to control this power, or until she wasted away. 

There would be no stability in that lifestyle, but perhaps stability was more than she deserved. 

She took another step back, turning away from the flat. And then, he appeared, opening the door just enough to poke his head out. His blank expression soon morphed into one of pale recognition. His eyes widened, just a fraction of an inch. "Hermione, right?" His voice was sharper than she remembered, his eyes darker. The sound of his voice awakened something in her. Her lungs cleared, the power rushed through her veins. 

She threw herself forward. "I didn't know where else to go," she panted. She had to clutch the doorframe to keep herself from throwing herself on her knees before him; from submitting herself entirely to the mercy of someone who might as well be a stranger.

But Hermione Granger always stood back up again, no matter how many times her knees grazed the pavement.

The boy cast a nervous glance behind him before extending a tentative hand. "Come on in." 

The wooden doorframe splintered under her grip. For better or for worse, she'd made it out alive. God help the fool who tried to change that. 


	2. the bloodroot

By the time she crossed the threshold into his flat, Hermione was filled with doubt. With every step she took the feeling grew, like a wire noose around her neck, constricting her airflow—suffocating her.

The boy led her to the kitchen, bare feet padding softly on the wooden panels. Hermione hovered in the doorway. She shifted her weight, stretching out her toes in her muddy boots. She didn't want to track mud into his home, but taking off her shoes felt too presumptive. She settled on leaving them on, but avoided carpets, doing her best to stay on the balls of her feet, to mitigate the damage.

As she followed him through the apartment, she tried to keep her eyes from wandering, but in her periphery, she noticed the plain white walls, bare of any decorations. The living room was sparse, marked by a small square of white carpet. No television; only an iron bookcase and a faded suede couch with a cable-knit blanket thrown haphazardly over the back of it. A modest dwelling, but Hermione knew London real estate: even a small flat in Camden would break her bank. She turned back to the boy, who was clearing three half-eaten cartons of Chinese takeout from the kitchen table.

Reckless power still pulsed in beneath her fingertips, but it seemed more manageable in this boy's presence.

That's how she referred to him: the boy. He'd told her his name the first time they met, on Primrose Hill over the summer, but names held too much power. They provided footholds, but Hermione had been floating aimlessly in the ocean for too long to have any use for an anchor.

Besides, unless this boy had been scarfing down three servings of chow mein on his own, there were roommates. How could she stay, knowing there were others whom she'd be subjecting to danger, especially if they weren't there to speak for themselves? 

"I'm so sorry to barge in on you like this," she blurted, balling one hand into a fist and cracking her knuckles. He was silent as he collected the paper plates, so she continued, her throat still scratchy and raw from the smoke. "I thought I would be able to handle it, but I ended up— It was an accident, but I—" She paused. He was a stranger, but he somehow knew her better than anyone else in her life; or at least, he understood this one crucial fragment of her that no one else ever could. There was no point in keeping secrets from him. "I burned my house down. And I really don't want to intrude on you, but I didn't have anywhere else to go, and I thought you might know of someone who could teach me to harness these abilities before I burn down half the city."

He cleared his throat and leaned against the counter, arms crossed, lips turned down. Hermione's heart sank before he opened his mouth. "I don't think that'll be possible."

She twirled a stray curl around her finger as her eyes darted around the room. Despite her best efforts, Hermione couldn't resist trying to piece together the puzzle of this boy's life. The tall boy with the strange name with photographs on his kitchen counter that _moved_. Her eyes lingered on the one in the center: three boys with their arms around each other, laughing and a girl rolling her eyes, visibly suppressing a smile. Hermione knew it was insignificant compared to her current crisis, but the voice of curiosity in her begged to know if it was technology or magic that brought those photographs to life.

"How did you learn it?" she asked, dragging her gaze back to his dark eyes. She had tried to block out most of her own memories involving magic, but she would never forget watching him. He'd created light out of nothing. It was effortless, the way it sprung from his fingers. _He_ was effortless. Confident and in-control; two things Hermione craved but hadn't felt in years.

He scratched the back of his ear. She didn't miss the way his eyes flitted to the thin, dark stick of wood that sat on the table between them. "I went to a school for wizardry."

Hermione's eyes lifted as she did a double-take, following his line of sight, to the stick. _A wand,_ she realized. Her chest inflated at the chance to learn how to control her abilities in a safe, supervised environment. "Brilliant! How do I enroll?"

He dragged a hand through his hair and tucked his lips in before standing up straight. "Listen, Hermione, the Wizarding World is not really the most accepting of... outsiders. I can give you a place to stay tonight and a hot shower, and teach you a few simple spells so you can keep it under control, but it would best if you did your best to keep this a secret and just... try to live a normal life."

Her lips parted as she took a step back and tried to reclaim her composure. She glanced back at the moving photograph. On second glance, she noticed all four of the subjects in matching ivy ties: a school uniform. Hermione rubbed the base of her throat, unable to keep herself from imagining what she would look like in that green and silver tie, a wand in her hand, conjuring light with only her will. Fearlessly wielding the power that surged right beneath her skin. "If you can't help me, could you point me in the direction of someone who will?"

He sighed and rubbed a hand over his cropped hair. "That's what I'm trying to tell you, there is no one who can help you." He pushed away from the table and tucked his wand into this pocket. "Move to the country, go to university, get a job, and pretend you don't know anything about any of this."

"How am I supposed to forget about it?" she asked, flexing her fingers as sparks shot out of them. He took a step back and gripped the edge of the kitchen counter for support. He spat out a curse. She inhaled and curled her fingers into her palms. Lowering her voice, she said, "I'm too far gone."

He bowed his head, clenched his jaw. Hermione chanced another glance around the room. A pile of books was stacked unevenly in the corner, an open notebook sat on the coffee table, next to a quill and an inkwell, like a scene straight out of a nineteenth-century still-life painting. When she looked back at the boy, he was looking at the ceiling, muttering words like a prayer under his breath.

"Listen," he finally said, his dark eyes returning to hers. Before he could utter another word, the front door burst open. At the sudden sound, Hermione staggered backward, tripping over the carpet

"I'm back! With vodka!"

When she righted herself, she noticed a streak of mud had stained the white carpet. She looked up at the ceiling, not willing to draw any attention to it. 

"For the love of Merlin," he muttered, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. "Theo, I'm in the kitchen."

"I think the Muggle overcharged me but this should- Hi. Who are you?" A second boy with shaggy brown hair and a boyish smile stood by the couch, holding a bottle of vodka by the neck. 

He threw a lazy hand in her direction. "This is Hermione."

Hermione gave a small wave and a half-hearted smile.

"I'm Theo." A heavy silence settled over the trio. Hermione trained her eyes on her boots and chanced another glance at the mud on the carpet. Theo set the glass bottle of alcohol on the kitchen counter. "I'm sorry," he said after a moment, "did I interrupt something?"

"It's not like that-" the boy said.

"Are you magical, too?" Hermione asked. As soon as the words slipped out, she offered a sheepish smile. It had been nearly three years since she'd been in school, and yet, she too easily regressed back into her childhood eagerness. It was safe to assume that he was magical, or at least knew about magic, given the moving photographs in the kitchen, but it would have been safer still to keep her mouth shut. 

Theo coughed. "Depends on why you're asking."

The boy sighed. "She's a Muggle-born. A stray."

Theo paled. Hermione furrowed her brow in confusion at the new term. "A what?"

"A Muggle-born," he repeated with an air of impatience. "Someone born to two non-magical parents."

She glanced between them. "Okay. Is that bad?" She tucked the word _stray_ into her lexicon: she'd ask for the definition later.

"It's not ideal," Theo said, at the same time the other boy said, "Yes."

Hermione paused. "And that's why you want me to leave? Because my parents aren't magical?" _Stop talking,_ she scolded herself, but the words kept flowing. Apparently, she'd used up all of her self-control on the trip to Camden. Her voice only rose. "You can do magic, but you haven't evolved beyond the need for meaningless, antiquated hierarchies?"

"Wait, no, you can't leave," said Theo.

"Theo-" The boy placed a gentle hand on Theo's arm. 

Theo shook it off. "No, you're not going throw her to the wolves like that. Hermione," he turned to her, "It's not just a hierarchy it's a- it's like a food chain."

Hermione opened her mouth. Each answer she received only spawned a thousand and one more questions.

"You don't need to scare her," the other boy hissed, as if Hermione couldn't hear every word he spoke. "She can leave now and at least try to live a normal life. We'll teach her a few basics so she doesn't accidentally kill anyone, and no one will ever find out about her."

"Unless they do," Theo said. "And then she's fucked."

The two boys held each other's glares. Hermione rocked back on her heels, debating whether she should leave now and save face, or risk waiting around until they kicked her out on her ass. Theo broke away from their staring contest first and turned to face Hermione, disregarding the other boy's protests. "There are some very powerful people in the Wizarding World who think Muggle-borns are an abomination."

The words spun so quickly in her head, she felt dizzy. "So much that they'd kill me?" Hermione asked. She'd be lying if she said she hadn't toyed with the idea of death, but dying at the hands of someone else was an unbearable thought. If her life were coming to an end, it would be on her terms. 

"Only if you're lucky," Theo said with a grimace. "Most are enslaved. A pretty, young girl like you would likely get the sold as a concubine."

An icy chill inched its way up Hermione's spine, lodging itself in the back of her neck. "Oh."

"So that's why you can't go to magic school."

Hermione nodded, wringing her hands, picking at the dirt underneath her fingernails. "Is there any way to tell the Muggle-borns from the..." she trailed off as she realized she didn't know any of the terminology.

"Pure-bloods," Theo supplemented.

The boy snorted. "And I don't think I need to dignify that with an answer. Considering you know nothing about magic, you'd never be able to hold a conversation with a pure-blood."

"Even if you could," Theo continued, "pure-bloods aren't exempt from all laws. The government still demands sacrifice. Your best bet is staying hidden."

Hermione nodded and spun on her heel, pacing back and forth in the kitchen. She ran her fingers through her hair and tugged at a knot she'd been working on all day. "Okay. Okay, so, I'll leave the country. I'll go to Australia or Brazil or-"

"Hey, you don't have to decide right now," Theo said. "Stay the night, take a shower. We'll talk tomorrow."

Hermione shook her head, prepared to argue, but Theo had already taken her by the wrist and pulled her to a linen closet. As he reached for a clean towel, the front door sounded again. The boy looked up, mouth agape. Hermione froze as Theo cringed. She crossed her arms over her chest and moved behind him. When Theo saw her apparent fear, he offered an encouraging smile. "Sorry. You're not in danger, but _he_ won't like this."

"Who?" She didn't move her arms from her chest. 

"I went to five goddamn bakeries before I found this goddamn pie. You two should kiss my feet for all the sacrifices I've made this week." The third boy entered the kitchen holding a white box with both hands, stormy eyes bouncing between the three of them. "What's going on?"

"This is Hermione," Theo said, biting his lip. "Hermione, this is Draco."


	3. the primrose

Hermione had never looked less like a threat, with her trembling hands and ash-covered face, and yet, his gaze never strayed from her. Moving slowly, as if he expected her to attack them at any moment, Draco set the pie on the table and returned to the outskirts of the room, clasping his hands behind his back. The two other boys, in turn, remained silent, deferring to his judgment, waiting for him to have the first word. Feeling lethargy set in, Hermione rocked onto the balls of her feet. 

"What's she doing here?" For someone with such a pale, almost ethereal disposition, his voice was deeper than Hermione expected. 

"She's a Muggle-born," the boy answered. _Blaise_ , she reluctantly corrected herself. She supposed she was entrenched in their world deeply enough at this point to call the boy by his first name.

Draco lifted his chin, looking down at her over his slender nose. "I knew that much. I can practically smell it on her." He stood taller than others, but not by much, and painfully thin. Still, his presence was imposing and demanding. With the strong set of his jaw, the confidence in his shoulders, she found him impossible to ignore. And he reveled in that fact. "Put her out on the street with the rest of the strays," Draco said with a sneer. 

"She'll never make it out of London alive," Theo said, taking three steps toward Draco, but stopping just out of reach. "You know what they'll do to her."

"You know what they'll do to us if they find out we're harboring a Mudblood." Draco narrowed his eyes.

Whatever that word meant, it wasn't a compliment. Hermione's shoulders caved. "Listen, I really don't want to cause any trouble-" But no one seemed to be listening to her.

"She's not on the Registry. I would remember a name as pretentious as Hermione," Draco continued. "There's still time for her to get out alive." 

She dug her fingernails into her upper arms. How far would she get before _they_ found her? Would she have been better off not knowing the dangers that lurked in every shadow? 

"We already told her she could stay the night," said Blaise. "But you can stay at Pansy's if her presence upsets you that much."

"And tell Pansy what?" Draco bit back, lifting a pale eyebrow. "You _know_ she can't find out about this."

"Offer to go down on her," Blaise quipped. "She'll let you stay for a week. No questions asked." 

Draco's back stiffened. From his words and his icy tone, his pallid appearance and aloof, unfeeling demeanor, everything about him was cold. He stood straight as a bayonet, unmoving, with all the precision and discipline of a soldier. Not even his shoulders rose and fell to signify his breath. It gave him a look of indifference, like he was so far removed from Hermione and her situation—so far above her.

"She's practically bursting at the seams," Theo said, disregarding the comment about Pansy. "If we don't help her, she'll turn into an Obscurial." Hermione mentally added that the list of words to look up later.

Draco looked her over, taking his sweet time. Any other day, she would have scolded any man who had the balls to shamelessly look at her like she was a meal, but her eyes were drooping and her heart rate was slowing. She only had so much fight left; she had to pick her battles. "You might want to consider that option," he said. "It would be a blessing compared to what Voldemort would do to you."

"Lay off, Malfoy," Blaise said. Draco took a step forward. Hermione blinked. She hadn't expected Blaise to be the one to come to her defense so swiftly. 

As Draco opened his mouth to perpetuate the argument, Theo took the opportunity to lead Hermione away from the ostentatious display of hegemonic masculinity. "Shower's right through there." He pointed to the bathroom.

Hermione offered a small smile; the greatest display of gratitude she could muster. "I don't want any of you to risk your lives for me. I just need to know how to control this and then I'll be on my way."

Theo shook his head. "No rush. We'll work on Draco, just get cleaned up. You've had a rough day."

Hermione sighed as she closed the door behind her. _Understatement of the year._

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

When he heard the shower turn on, Theo unwrapped the pie. Lemon meringue, Blaise's favorite. On Friday nights, the three usually enjoyed it with an intense drinking game and illicit drugs, but no one seemed to be in the mood anymore. Not when their death sentence was lathering, rinsing, and repeating just ten feet from the kitchen table. 

After rolling up his sleeves, Theo summoned a fork from the kitchen with a lazy wave of his wand and dug into the cream.   
  
"So, what's her deal?" Draco asked, sinking into the chair beside Theo and propping his legs up on the table. 

"She accidentally set her house on fire," said Blaise. Theo knocked Draco's legs to the ground with his elbow. 

Draco took it in kind, leaning forward. "So you thought to invite her here?" The words were accusatory, but his voice still sounded detached. "We have a lot of books. Makes the flat pretty flammable." 

"What do you suggest we do with her then?" 

"Send her to the Order of the Phoenix. They'll at least kill her quickly, if you don't want me to do it," Draco said, without a trace of sympathy. Theo and Blaise had been talking for months about revolution and rebellion. It had always manifested in small acts: stealing from the Ministry, telling white lies to the Death Eaters about how they spent their time. It was harmless fun, and more importantly, impossible to trace the lie. Draco never thought it would come to anything more. He had always quelled their spirits before it could.

"They wouldn't," Theo argued. "They need the numbers." 

"They have too many mouths to feed and not enough resources. She's useless at best and a liability at worst," said Draco. "Say what you will about the Order, but they're not above a mercy killing."

A long, steady rush of air escaped through Theo's nostrils. 

"If we're going to keep talking about this, I need some vodka," Blaise said, holding out his hand. Theo flicked the cap open, downed a mouthful, and passed the bottle to Blaise. 

As he stretched his arm out, he flashed the inside of his forearm in Draco's direction, revealing the remnants of a battlefield. Draco averted his gaze. Some of Theo's scars were pale and faded. Others were fresher, a collection of raised and angry reminders of the hold that Voldemort held over all of them. He wished his friend kept them covered. Draco always wore long sleeves: not to cover any blemishes, as he didn't have any. Rather, he didn't want any more reminders that his skin was pristine and unmarked, while Theo's had been carved into, sliced, and slashed. He cleared his throat and took another bite of pie. "How did she know to come here, anyway?" 

"We met over the summer on Primrose Hill. I was being stupid and showing off, and she saw me. Told me she'd been struggling to control her magic, asked if she should be concerned." Blaise shoveled another forkful pie into this mouth.

"You should have told her to leave the country then and there."

"I _should_ have been more careful and not let myself get caught doing magic in public in the first place, but I wasn't," he said and wiped bits of cream from the corners of his lips. "She caught me off-guard. She was confused and pretty-"

Draco groaned. "If I risked my life for every confused and pretty girl who asked me-"

Blaise didn't let him finish. "I told her to ignore it. That was obviously a mistake." Draco glared, uncompromising. "And then I told her if she ever needed help, she could come here. And like it or not—and believe me, I don't—she needs our help."

"She could be killed. _We_ could be killed."

Theo lifted the bottle in the air. "We can be killed at any point. We live our lives standing on a precipice, afraid that one wrong move will get us sent over the edge, but Voldemort doesn't need a reason to get rid of us. If he wants us gone, we'll be dead before we can even ask why. We've lived through all this death and destruction for twenty years, thinking that one day, things will get better, but there's no end in sight. If we're going to die at any moment anyway, we might as well do something worth dying for." He punctuated his speech by slamming the vodka bottle on the table.

Draco clenched his jaw, reaching for the bottle. "I think you've had enough of that," he said and took a swig, though Theo was just as lucid as he and Blaise were. Draco made a face as he lowered the bottle. He much preferred scotch over vodka, but Theo was partial to the stuff, so Draco relented. For all that Theo had given up, Draco was happy to make this small sacrifice. "What are we going to do about Pansy?"

"Tell her we have cockroaches and she can't come over for a while," Blaise offered. "Are you going to see her tomorrow?"

Draco nodded.

"Swear you won't tell her about Hermione," Theo demanded.

Draco scoffed, taking another bite of pie. "I'm officially an accomplice to your crimes. Rest assured, this secret will, most unfortunately, go with me to my grave."

Blaise tilted the bottle. "Hopefully later rather than sooner."

The sound of the shower halted, and their conversation submitted to the silence. Hermione walked out on the balls of her feet, wrapped in a towel, leaving minuscule puddles in her wake. "Would it be possible to borrow a t-shirt? My clothes are all a bit... crispy."

Theo, ever the gentleman, was the first to offer. "Yeah, follow me." 

Draco rolled his neck. "Wait." He stood. "I have some of Pansy's clothes. It'll fit better." With a reluctant nod and a final glance at Theo, Hermione followed him into his bedroom. 

When they had moved into the flat, almost three years ago, he had chosen the smallest bedroom for himself. He found it comforting, that he couldn't pace more than a few feet. The world outside may have been vast and unending, but his bedroom was small and manageable; he knew every inch of it. Which floorboards creaked, the hollow spaces behind the wall, the uneven crown molding above the doorframe, every book that lined his shelves, and every sweater folded in his drawers. 

"Who's Pansy?" Hermione asked. Draco tensed at the sound of her voice. The one unfamiliarity within his walls. 

He forced his shoulders to loosen. "Doesn't matter. If everything goes according to plan, you'll never have the pleasure of meeting her." Kneeling at the base of his dresser, he withdrew an old Hogwarts sweatshirt and a pair of shorts and handed them to Hermione. "I'll see what I can do to procure a few more options." 

"If you get your way, that won't be necessary," she said, examining the Hogwarts logo: Salazar Slytherin's coat of arms was front and center, with the other three founders' represented directly below it. The logo had changed since his parents' days at Hogwarts, before Voldemort came to power and Slytherin became the only respectable house to be sorted into. 

"Seems as if I won't be getting my way this time. Theo wants to play the hero. I'll let him for now." He didn't finish the sentiment, but judging by the way her eyebrows lifted and her lips tightened, he knew she got the idea. If it came down to saving his friends or saving her, he wouldn't hesitate to throw her to the wolves. Theo wanted to protect her, but Draco wanted to protect Theo. He didn't mind playing the bad guy in order to ensure their survival. 

Which meant, regrettably, that he had to stop staring at the curve of her bare collarbone. 

Hermione's chest rose and fell, but she didn't respond to his threat. "Is this the magic school you all went to?" 

He nodded his affirmation, not particularly inclined to elaborate. He wasn't going to wax nostalgic about his school days with a Muggle-born who was so inept at magic, she had inadvertently turned her home into a pile of ash. She lifted the pile of clothes. "Ok, well, I'll just..."

Draco cleared his throat and took a step back, squaring his shoulders and tucking his arms behind him. "Right. Don't snoop when you're done." Not that there was anything to find. Draco didn't keep his secrets in his bedroom. It was nearly empty, save for his bed, dresser, a desk, and a small bookshelf, which only held a few Muggle classics and empty notebooks. His walls were bare, the dresser housed enough outfits to last him a week, nothing more. If he never fully settled, he couldn't call the apartment home. He couldn't become attached. 

Roots, in Draco's experience, were little more than beguiling chains, and he had been in bondage for too long to be tricked into submitting further. 

When Draco emerged from the bedroom, Theo was piling pillows and blankets on the couch. "She can sleep in my room," he explained. "In case someone breaks in, at least she won't be the first one they see."

"Then we'll have to explain why you're not sleeping in your own bed."

He punched another pillow into shape. "As of yet, no one has offered to share a bed, so it seems like this is our best option." _As of yet_. Draco rolled his eyes. Theo said it as if it were inevitable. Sure, she was attractive enough, and if they were willing to gamble their lives, reputations, and legacies for a shag, that was their prerogative. Draco certainly wasn't one to stand in the way of a good lay, even if it was with a Mudblood. 

Theo closed the open notebook on the coffee table and set it on the shelf, next to a long line of filled journals, and the rest of Draco's library. They were few physical things Draco indulged in: books and notebooks. Impractical, maybe, but necessary for his sanity nonetheless. 

Hermione cleared her throat, appearing at the entrance of the kitchen, her hair still sopping wet. Draco had underestimated Pansy's height; the sweatshirt hung to mid-thigh, completely covering the shorts and exposing the length of her smooth leg. 

Draco averted his eyes, catching sight of a line of mud on the corner of the carpet. His head shot up. He squinted at her. "Did you do this?" he asked.

Hermione's eyes widened, like a deer caught in headlights. "I- um..."

He sighed and dropped his head. "The first thing you're going to learn are cleaning spells," he muttered. 

Her cheeks flushed crimson, but she didn't put up a fight. 

"Feel better?" Theo asked. Hermione nodded. He turned to the group. "Are you sure about this?"

 _Of course not_ , Draco thought. He met Theo's eyes, wide and somehow still soft, even after twenty years of oppression and isolation. "You have the most to lose out of all of us, Nott," he said, grateful when Theo made no move to dispute this claim. "So you better make damn sure you're willing to risk everything for her."

Theo glanced between the three others, fingers unconsciously reaching for his wand. "I guess we better put up every protective enchantment we know."


	4. the tithonia

Tepid sunlight filtered through the blinds, and even though it was December, Theo's bedroom filled with a warm glow. Hermione had been awake for hours, after being jolted awake just before sunrise by the sound of the front door slamming closed. She'd been awake to hear Blaise fumbling around in the shower that morning and to hear Theo whistling while he cooked breakfast. Despite the hollow pang in her stomach, she couldn't bring herself to leave the comfort of the fresh linens. She pulled her blanket tighter over her shoulders and shifted so she was laying her side, facing the window. Through the slats in the blinds, she could see the neighbors leaving their homes, rushing out the door on their way to work, blissfully unaware of the supernatural dangers all around them. 

_Were any of their neighbors wizards?_ Hermione wondered. She had no point of reference for wizarding demographics. For all she knew, half of Britain's population were magical. 

She flexed her fingers before clamping them around the folds of the pilled blanket. She found that when her fingers were busy, it was easier to keep them from bursting into sparks. It didn't do much, however, to keep the window from occasionally opening on its own, letting bursts of cold air cloud the bedroom and penetrate her skin. At first, Hermione hadn't even realized it was her doing—merely the result of a windy night on and an old building. After she awoke shivering for the third time in the middle of the night, she knew it couldn't have been the wind.

Did Blaise, Theo, and Draco feel like this? Perpetual, debilitating electrical impulses right beneath the skin, just aching to explode? Had any of them had a mishap as horrific as hers before they went to their wizarding school?

She flipped onto her other side, turning away from the window. Her mind wandered to her parents. They must have returned from their dinner late last night, a bit tipsy. Were they looking for her? Or had they accepted that she had been killed in the fire? She imagined the fire department arriving at the scene, perplexed by the fact that there didn't seem to be any plausible explanation for the fire: no faulty wiring, no gas leak, no problems with the fuse box.

The heat in her veins intensified as she felt tiny needles prick at the corners of her eyes. She pulled the duvet from her shoulders and stood, leaving the warmth of the blankets before shifting her attention to the bookshelf in Theo's bedroom. She didn't recognize any of the titles. _Quidditch Through the Ages_. Hermione didn't know what quidditch was, and though she felt a tinge of curiosity, she knew there must be a better introduction to the Wizarding World. _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them._ More promising, if a bit specific. _Secrets of the Darkest Art_. Intriguing, but she needed something basic. _A History of Magic._ That was the one. It was the thickest on the shelf, so it would hopefully keep her occupied until the boys inevitably booted her from their home. Perhaps they'd even let her keep a book or two.

A knock sounded on the door. Hermione jumped She hastily set the tome back on the shelf and returned to perch on the edge of the bed. 

Theo poked his head in. "Hey. Are you hungry?"

She opened her mouth to decline. They had opened their home to her, after all. It seemed rude to ask for anything more, but it seemed she would be here indefinitely. She couldn't deny her hunger for much longer. After resetting the blanket so it appeared neat enough, she followed Theo to the kitchen, where Blaise sat, reading a newspaper. On the front cover, a black and white photograph of a grotesque, serpentine man leered at Hermione. She faltered at the sight of him moving, his tongue swiping across his top lip in the moving photograph.

Blaise set the newspaper facedown when he saw her enter and gestured to the plate beside him. She nearly tripped into the seat at the sight of a full English breakfast, complete with black pudding. She shoved the toast in her mouth, not bothering to savor the first bite. Although she had eaten the day before, something about committing arson and fleeing the scene had left her famished.

"Here," Theo said after she had devoured half of her plate. He handed her a supple, crooked stick. "It's from Malfoy's stash, so I don't know how well it will work for you, but it's better than nothing."

"He has plenty," Blaise said into his coffee cup. "Odds are one of them will work fine."

Hermione turned the wand over in her hand. The wood was rough between her fingers. Blaise and Theo's wands sat between them on the table: longer and more elegant than hers. Blaise's was dark and smooth, while Theo's was lighter with symbols etched up and down the length. Runes of some sort. If she were a pureblood, she supposed, perhaps she would have had the opportunity to choose her own wand, rather than getting whatever training-wheel, hand-me-down Draco had been willing to give up.

Wondering was pointless, she reminded herself. This was the way things were, and if what these boys—wizards—had told her was true, she needed to get that through her head if she wanted to survive. "What do I do with it?" Her breakfast sat in front of her, half-eaten and forgotten. Power undulated in her bones and anxiety rushed through her veins; her first chance to do magic on purpose. The first time her abilities would be completely in her own control. 

"Start simple," Theo said, picking up his own wand. "Move your wand like this-" He drew a mountain in the air, "-and say _Lumos."_ He demonstrated, and the tip of his wand lit like the end of a match. Bright enough to catch someone's attention, maybe enough to read a book in the dark, but not bright enough to light an entire room.

Hermione took a deep breath. The magic pounded in her ears, rushing like blood. " _Lumos._ " Blinding light exploded the end of her wand. Instinctively, she squeezed her eyes shut and let the wand clatter to the floor. The moment it left her grasp, the light extinguished. "Sorry," she muttered as she bent to pick it up and set it back on the table.

Blaise rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms. "This is going well."

"It'll be fine," Theo snapped. "Keep working on that spell. To turn it off, say _Nox_ , and invert the motion."

Hermione lifted her wand. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Blaise cover his eyes. " _Lumos._ " The light was still brighter than Theo's. Hermione had to squint, but it no longer felt as though she was looking into the sun. " _Nox_."

Theo took a breath. "Good," he said. "Better."

She examined her hands. It didn't stand to reason that they were where the power came from, but that's how it felt. Like the power lived and breathed in her palms. Like she could create and destroy as easily as snapping her fingers. 

She clenched her fists. _Destruction shouldn't be that easy._ "Where is Draco, anyway?" she asked.

"Work." Blaise folded the newspaper, placing the moving photograph of the man with no nose face down against the table. _Does it still move when no one's watching?_

She sniffed. Draco didn't strike her as the type of person who worked, especially at their age. She knew boys like him: boys who would spend their twenties traveling Europe and collecting advanced degrees from pretentious universities on their parents' dime until they were experts in their field, but had no concrete experience. "What does he do?"

Theo and Blaise exchanged a fleeting look. Blaise buried his nose back in the newspaper, while Theo pointed to her wand. "Try again."

She rolled her eyes but obeyed. " _Lumos_." This time, the soft light at the tip of her wand matched Theo's. " _Nox._ " It wasn't clear whether the wand had acclimated to her, or if she was getting used to wielding her power. Either way, her magic was satiating, and she was pleased to have a productive and harmless outlet to practice. She was not, however, pleased with the lack of answers she had received thus far. "Do either of you work?" she asked.

Blaise and Theo exchanged diffident looks. "It's complicated."

 _It's a yes or no question_. If they didn't want to share personal details, Hermione wouldn't push, but she refused to leave the conversation more confused than when it started. "Who's Voldemort?" she asked, though with how quick Blaise's fingers were to fold the paper, Hermione suspected she didn't need an answer. "I heard Draco mention the name yesterday." She moved a piece of bacon around her plate, wishing she had a cup of tea to wash it down, but not wanting to take advantage of their hospitality.

"He's our... governmental leader, for lack of a better word," Blaise explained, reclining in his chair and gesturing to the newspaper. Hermione hesitantly picked it up and unfolded it. The serpentine man stared right back at her. His slitted eyes seemed to puncture through the paper. She read the headline. _Ministry of Magic Releases New List of Banned Books._

"Banning books? Isn't that a bit dystopian?"

"Are you surprised?" Blaise asked. "Last night, we told you he'd enslave and torture you if he ever got his hands on you." He sank his teeth in a sausage link, as if the words _enslave_ and _torture_ didn't bother him at all. 

"Oh, is that all he'd do?" she muttered as he reached for the newspaper. As he folded it up again, she caught a final glimpse of Voldemort's tongue flicking across his lips. 

"Why don't we save the You-Know-Who talk for another day?" Theo asked. "All you need to do right now is focus on the spells-"

Right then, the door slammed open, and Theo's mouth fell closed. Draco strode in, his hair sticking up in all different directions. "You're home early," Theo observed. "It's not even noon."

"Slow day," he said, loosening the black tie around his neck. Without stopping to chat, he continued to his bedroom and slammed the door.

The trio at the table fell silent, while Theo and Blaise engaged each other in a staring contest. Hermione wondered how often Draco had these mood swings. 

Theo jerked his head toward the door and jabbed a finger at Blaise, who pinched his lips together before shouting, "How's Pansy?"

"Pissed that I told her she couldn't come over!" A hollow thud sounded and echoed through the apartment. 

Blaise flinched at the noise.

"Try again," Theo hissed. 

Blaise shrugged and returned to his breakfast. 

With an exaggerated sigh, Theo placed both palms on the table. "I'll be right back."

Hermione leaned back on her chair, nibbling on a piece of bacon as he disappeared into the corridor.

Blaise watched Theo's exist with the ghost of a triumphant smirk on the corners of his lips. When Theo was gone, he leaned forward, eyes hooded. "So, Voldemort?" 

Hermione's breath shallowed, and she suddenly wasn't sure she wanted to know anything else about the Wizarding World. Repeating _Lumos_ and _Nox c_ ould be enough to keep her from burning another house down. She could go home, help her parents rebuild, live a life hiding in plain sight. But when she curled her fingers around the hand-me-down wand and felt the equilibrium between her hand, the wand, and her power, she felt that sense of control she so craved.

She needed more. "Tell me," she whispered.

"Voldemort thinks of himself as a god, so he runs our government like some sort of perverse religion. A cult might be the most accurate word." Hermione's tongue went dry. "He demands worship and sacrifice, and that means payment."

Feeling returned to the tips of her fingers, but she didn't allow her shoulders to relax. "Like... taxes?" She hated how naive the question sounded, even to her own ears. 

"It's called a Tithe. Some people pay money, others have to give up their possessions or their services, some pay in blood or knowledge or prison sentences."

Hermione recoiled. Her stomach churned. Four pieces of bacon on top of all of her eggs may have been a mistake. "Blood? What use does he have for blood?"

His dark skin had grown ashen. "It's not about usefulness, it's about exerting every degree of psychological control over us that he can. It's the price we pay for living in a world without Mudbloods." He flinched as the word escaped his lips. "Sorry."

She shrugged it off. She had gathered it was a rude word for a Muggle-born wizard, but other than that, the word held no significance to her. "What's your Tithe?"

"He wanted my ancestral home. As far as tithes go, it could be worse. At least Draco opened up this apartment to me, so I'm not homeless, but after my parents died, that estate held everything left of them. All their belongings; all my memories. I won't ever be allowed to return."

Hermione furrowed her brow. "He won't even let you visit?"

Blaise shook his head. "He uses it as a base for his army—calls them the Death Eaters." The sound of the name left her ears ringing. "My parents never joined him, no matter how many times he tried to force them to. If he couldn't subjugate them in their lives, he'd tarnish their memory after their deaths." He drew a circle on the table with his fingers, keeping his eyes anywhere but Hermione's face. "Trespassers aren't allowed on the bases, so unless I want to dedicate my life to serving his crusade, I'm forbidden from entering."

"I'm sorry." The fragile sentence rang hollow. No words could satisfy the ache she imagined he was feeling; she felt the same one. They had both lost their families, and neither would be permitted to find solace in their fleeting memories. "Has no one tried to stage a coup?"

"Careful," Draco said from the threshold to the kitchen. He had changed from his dress clothing into a gray long-sleeved t-shirt and dark jeans, and he'd combed his hair, so it fell neatly to his ears. "Talk of revolution isn't taken lightly in some crowds."

"It's just us," Hermione said, gesturing to the otherwise empty apartment. She had expected Theo to be close behind him, but he never emerged from the hallway. 

Draco nodded the window. "There tends to be a lack of trust in my circle of friends and colleagues. They have, on multiple occasions, unexpectedly dropped by to make sure I'm not committing this very act of treason. _Muffliato_." He pointed his wand at the window. "Proceed."

Blaise let out a short breath. "There's a small resistance, called the Order of the Phoenix, but their numbers are dwindling every day."

"Not to mention the fact that Voldemort is essentially immortal," Draco said. With a wave of his wand, he heated a water kettle and poured it into two mugs. "It doesn't do much to subdue the god complex. Do you take cream and sugar in your tea?"

Hermione's eyes bounced between Blaise and Draco, unsure whom he was addressing. But his cloudy eyes were trained right on her. "Just cream, thank you," she said, taken aback by his manners, considering not twelve hours ago, he had threatened to kill her. 

Maybe the tea was poisoned.

When he set the steaming mug before her, she waited for him to sip his first. He did so with an amused expression, as though he knew exactly what she was thinking. Hesitantly, she lifted the mug to her lips, savoring the sweet burn on the roof of her mouth. A perfectly fine cup of tea. Theo must have talked some sense into him. She took another sip. "How does one become immortal?"

"No one knows," Blaise said.

"Surely there's a way to find out."

"I suppose there is. Which is why I expect he's banning books like-" Blaise flipped the newspaper over. "- _Secrets of the Darkest Art_." Hermione leaned forward, recalling the title from Theo's bookshelf. "Do we have that one, Draco?"

"Never heard of it," Draco responded without looking up.

Hermione smiled into her cup. A coup might not have been possible, but wars always began with quiet acts of rebellion. Of that much, Hermione was capable. After all, her existence in and of itself was an act of revolution.


	5. the iris

Draco came home the next day with blood crusted beneath his fingernails and storm clouds in his mind.

Hermione and Theo sat cross-legged on the floor, practicing _Lumos_ and _Nox_ when he strode through the kitchen. "Welcome home," Theo said.

Draco didn't spare them a second glance, wishing—not for the first time— that he lived alone. He only grunted in response and turned on the faucet, scrubbing his hands free of their rust-colored stains. He kept his neck bent to avoid looking at his reflection in the darkened window above the sink. When he finished, he braced his hands on the edge of the granite counter and forced himself to inhale until his lungs couldn't expand anymore. Then he released. Tomorrow was his day off, thank Merlin. He wouldn't have to return to the Manor for two days.

Mercifully, the bottle of vodka Theo had bought was still on the counter, almost full. After the week he'd had, Draco was going to need a shot or five to fall asleep.

"I'm off to meet Pansy," Blaise announced, exiting his bedroom. "I'll bring back dinner. Granger, you good with Indian food?"

"That sounds great, thank you." Her voice always raised an octave when she spoke to Blaise, like she was trying harder to seem affable around him. Draco gripped the counter tighter. It seemed she had already given up on trying to win _him_ over. 

"What are you meeting her for?" Draco asked before slowly releasing his grasp on the counter.

Blaise made a point of staring at Draco's newly blood-free hands and tilted his head in a silent question. Draco responded with a barely perceptible nod. After nearly eleven years of cohabitation, the two of them had perfected their methods of telepathic conversation. It was a blessing as much as a curse, but better for Blaise to find out about Draco's whereabouts from the source than secondhand from Pansy. 

He cleared his throat. "Beers. It was her idea. I expect she wants to find out what's going on over here and why she isn't allowed to come over."

"What are you going to tell her?"

Blaise shrugged into his jacket and pocketed his keys. "That Theo isn't feeling well."

"That'll only make her want to come over more." Pansy Parkinson was the least maternal woman that Draco had ever met, but that didn't stop her from playing nurse every chance she got.

"It's not much of a stretch. She'll just have to deal with the disappointment. She should be used to it by now."

Their argument ended before it began. Draco scoffed as the door swung closed. "Looks like _Granger_ might not be the reason this blows up in our faces after all," he said with a grimace. He looked up at the ceiling. A ring of water damage circled one of the light fixtures. Draco had been trying to fix it for ages, but couldn't quite find the right combination of spells to fix it without altering the apartment above them, which would only raise questions from the neighbors. Perhaps it was time to address it directly with the landlord.

Hermione ignored his quip and went back to lighting the tip of her wand. "If Pansy is getting suspicious, I can leave for a few hours so she can come over."

_Where would you go? You already burned your own house down and faked your own death._

Besides, if there were anywhere else for her to go, Draco would have put her on whatever plane, train, or automobile would take her that. As it were, they were stuck with each other for a bit longer.

"It would be more trouble than it's worth. If anything were out of place, she'd notice, and the secret wouldn't end with her," Theo said.

"So, why are you friends with her if you don't trust her?" She didn't use an accusatory tone, but the words graveled against Draco just the same.

Theo hesitated, looking to Draco for help, but Draco kept his head down and pretended like he couldn't hear. He had no problem bashing Pansy to her face, but he wouldn't speak ill of her in front of the Mudblood. "It's-"

"Complicated. I know," Hermione sighed. Draco felt something adjacent to sympathy lodge itself in his ribcage. Pity, maybe, at how useless and ignorant this poor girl was. "It's complicated" was about the only thing she _did_ know about their world. She pushed herself to her knees. "Do you mind if I grab a glass of water?"

"Sure. Glasses are right above the stove," Theo said.

Draco clenched his jaw. "I'll get it." His voice sounded hoarse in his own ears. 

Hermione gave him a skeptical look but sank back to her heels. Draco filled the glass and placed it on the kitchen table, with a firm enough hand that liquid spilled over the edges.

"Thanks," she said, rising to meet him halfway.

"Stay there," Draco ordered. "Bring the glass to you."

She lowered her eyebrows and glanced at Theo. "I don't..."

Theo rose to his feet beside her. "Draco, don't do this. She just started learning."

"It's the most basic spell." Draco lifted his wand. Swish and flick. " _Wingardium Leviosa_."

The frown lines at the corners of her lips deepened but she lifted her wand and squeezed her eyes shut. Just watching her, Draco could almost feel the magic coursing through her veins, rushing through her fingertips into her wand, as effortless as her blood flowing, her heart pumping, her lungs expanding. " _Wingardium Leviosa_." The glass shook as it rose an inch above the wooden table before it fell back, splashing even more water onto the table.

"Try again." Unlike Theo's teaching voice, Draco's was cold and unforgiving. Unwilling to accept anything less than perfection. Theo collapsed onto the couch in a huff.

Hermione wrangled a hand through her hair and took a deep, shuddering breath. " _Wingardium Leviosa._ " This time, the glass rose a foot above the table. Hermione drew the glass closer to her, keeping it steadily above the ground. Her white teeth bit into the soft, pink skin of her lips in concentration. Draco, without warning, picked up the chair nearest him and slammed it onto the floor. Hermione's shoulders hunched. Losing her concentration, the glass fell to the ground and shattered.

She took a step back, narrowly avoiding a shard of glass in the shin.

"What the fuck?" Theo asked, jumping to his feet.

" _Reparo_ ," Draco said. The glass repaired itself. Draco set it back on the table and filled it with water once again. "Again."

"Give her the damn water," Theo demanded.

"Unless she's dying of thirst, she's going to work for it," Draco said through clenched teeth. "If she's attacked and you're not there for her to hide behind, she'll need to know how to protect herself. _Lumos_ and _Nox_ won't do much on that front. Might as well learn something useful." He gestured to the glass of water.

"If you're going to turn this into one of your sick games, the least you could do is let her do it in peace."

"If Death Eaters walk through that door, they're not going to let her cast a Stunning Spell _in peace._ Work through the distraction. Go again."

Hermione's frown smoothed out, replaced by a mask of indifference. "I'm suddenly not thirsty," she said, crossing her arms.

Draco shrugged and downed the glass of water himself. "Maybe when Blaise gets back with your dinner, you'll feel more inspired."

"You know, there's a reason we learned that spell with feathers," Theo said.

"You want to follow the Hogwarts curriculum?" Draco's chest inflated as he took a step toward them. Theo moved in front of Hermione. "In our fifth year, we learned how to take the Cruciatus Curse without screaming. Shall we have her try that exercise?"

Theo fell silent, louring. Draco held his stare until the other boy looked away. He turned his attention to Hermione. "You're dead weight around here, Granger. I'd suggest you two accelerate this training program so you can actually contribute something. Otherwise, this will end badly for all of us, and it'll be on you." Theo's submission left a bitter taste in Draco's mouth, but he'd gladly take his resentment over his death, any day of the week. 

"It's not going to-" Theo cut himself off by erupting into a fit of coughs. He fell back on the couch, digging his elbows into his knees.

"Theo?" Draco pushed off from the counter and rushed to his friend's side. He knelt beside him and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "You okay, mate?"

Theo continued coughing but nodded. "Water, please," he choked out.

Silently, Draco filled the glass with water from the tip of his wand. Theo drained the glass in one go. "Are you alright?"

Theo nodded and pounded a fist on his chest. "I'm fine." He looked up at Draco, who blinked and looked away. He was sure his eyes were bloodshot. "You look like shit, though," Theo said, as though noticing it for the first time. "Rough day?"

Draco sat back on his heels. "No more than usual, I'd say."

"I'm sorry." He didn't elaborate, and Theo didn't press. "You don't have to take it out on her." Theo's voice was so quiet, and his intentions were so good that Draco almost regretted his actions.

Hermione remained silent throughout their exchange. Draco ground his teeth as Theo's cough subsided. Didn't she have any sense of self-preservation? Why wasn't she fighting back? "If you want to eat tonight, you'd better get working on that spell," he said with a tone of finality. He snatched an empty notebook from the shelf and stalked to his bedroom, making sure to shut the door quietly behind him.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

"Sorry about him," Theo said. He set a thin paperback between them. "Try with this. Less risk of either of us being maimed."

"The apology would mean more coming from him," Hermione said. She practiced the wand motion and chanted the incantation in her head. "Should I take it personally or does he hate all Muggle-borns?"

"It's not like that."

She shifted her grip on the wand. Her fingers were already sore from clasping the rough wood so tightly. It was a miracle she hadn't gotten any splinters yet. "So it _is_ me."

Fiddling with the buttons on his shirt, Theo glanced over his shoulder. Lowering his voice, he said, "It's not my place to tell his story, but he grew up differently than Blaise and I did."

Hermione let her hands fall into her lap. "Meaning his family hates Muggle-borns and he's following the path laid out for him."

"Meaning," Theo corrected, "For a very long time, the Ordinance—the act that made all Muggle-borns property of Voldemort—benefitted him."

Hermione glanced through the kitchen, expecting Draco to be standing at the threshold, but it remained empty. "What changed?"

"Just about everything," he said with a bitter smile. He nudged the book closer to her with the tip of his wand. "Blaise will be back soon, and Draco wasn't kidding about not letting you eat."

Swish and flick. " _Wingardium Leviosa._ " The book rose above their heads. Hermione summoned all of her concentration to keep it from falling. Lowering the book, she discovered, was much more difficult. A moment after its initial descent, it came crashing down on Theo's head. "Oh my God! I'm so sorry!" she said between laughs.

Theo rubbed the top of his head. Another cough escaped him, despite his best and obvious efforts to keep it in, but he cracked a smile. "That was good. Relax your grip a little bit."

She tried again, this time only bringing the book to eye level before bringing it back to the floor. "Can I ask you something?"

"You get can ask one question each time you perform the spell."

She frowned, mentally sorting through the multitudes of questions. "Ever heard of the democratization of information?"

"Ever heard of supply and demand? That was your first question."

"You didn't answer. It doesn't count." Hermione rolled her eyes, lifted her wand, and raised the book off the ground. "What's the Cruciatus Curse?" 

Theo flexed his shoulders and lengthened his neck, a visceral reaction to whatever memories those words conjured. For a moment, it seemed like he'd deny her the answer, but eventually, he spoke in a near-whisper: "It's the torture curse. Causes extraordinary pain. Before Voldemort rose to power, it was considered an Unforgivable Curse. Anyone caught using it ended up in prison. Now, it's acceptable against Muggle-borns, criminals, and for teaching purposes."

Hermione's lips parted. The book fell to the ground, facedown and open. "They would use it on you at school?"

He nodded to the book. "That was another question."

With a shaky wrist, she made the book float a few inches above the ground. "They wanted to train us like Death Eaters, which meant we had to be able to handle the pain without breaking. They stopped last year when it started backfiring on them. Naturally, a few Hogwarts graduates every year would join the Order of the Phoenix. When the Death Eaters captured them, they would torture them for information, but of course, everyone was able to handle it."

"That's horrible." The tips of Hermione's fingers had gone cold. She lowered the book to the ground, dropped her wand, and wrapped her arms around her knees. "You were only children."

"Start them out young," Theo said without a hint of humor on his tongue. "Anything else?"

 _Loads._ But she would start with learning the definitions. "A stray is a Muggle-born that Voldemort doesn't know exists?" She'd deduced as much from context, and maybe it was silly, to waste one of her precious questions on one word, but she wanted confirmation. The language, according to Blaise, would be crucial if she were ever to fit into the wizarding society. 

"Yes and no. It's any Muggle-born who isn't in the Ministry's custody or service. It's a colloquialism that Draco coined a few years back, so it doesn't mean much outside these walls. There are plenty of strays that the Ministry has on record, but they're hoping will lead them to others, or to Pureblood traitors, so they tail them for a while before collaring them."

Hermione paled. "Please don't tell me you mean that literally." Theo grimaced in an apology, and Hermione ran an anxious hand through her hair. Both had long forgotten their agreement: spells in exchange for answers. At least, Hermione had; maybe Theo simply stopped caring. " _Stray_ is a pretty apt term then."

"I'm sorry. It was funny when Draco first came up with it." Theo placed the book back on the shelf. "It seems cruel now."

She rubbed her temples, picturing herself in a metal collar, held by a leash, perhaps.

Liberty had never seemed so distant or so fragile. Maybe Draco was right: death was more tempting than ever.

Her tongue went dry like she had a mouthful of cotton. "The word isn't the part that's cruel." She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to rid her mind of the image of herself, at twenty years old, forced to bow before a man who fancied himself a god, under the threat of torture; torture that was done by barely lifting a finger. If pain could be manifested by speaking it into existence, if it didn't leave any traceable, physical marks, it would be all too easy for the assailant to be above reproach.

"Maybe I _should_ go to Australia," she mused, hoping her voice didn't give away every emotion that lurked just beyond the surface. "Unless Voldemort rules over the entire Commonwealth."

Theo shook his head, lips pressed into a thin line. "Not exactly, but he does have spies across the globe. If they found an English Muggle-born witch in Australia, the consequences wouldn't be pretty."

There would be no escape.

"So what's the long game? Live out the rest of my life here, in someone else's bed, using someone else's wand?" It wasn't that she was ungrateful; she was exhausted. She considered Theo a friend, and Blaise was beginning to be nice enough. Draco irritated her, but she'd get used to him. The prospect of life in this apartment was by no means the worst option. As far as prisons went, she preferred this gilded cage to the collar and shackles waiting for her right outside, but she wasn't sure how long that sentiment would last.

"There's no long game. We take it one day at a time." 

Hermione had to force herself to keep from sighing. Without a plan, they'd be acting on impulse, impulse led to the loss of control, and loss of control led to corruption.

Before the fire had left Hermione's fingers, back in Hampstead, there was a moment in which Hermione felt liberated. She felt powerful, indomitable. To cause so much destruction with so little effort was horrifying, but it was intoxicating.

That kind of power only had one path: devastation.

"Give me the book. Let's keep going."

"Why don't you take a break?" he asked, blocking her reach.

She cleared her throat. " _Wingardium Leviosa._ " One of Draco's notebooks from the top shelf floated above their heads and landed in Hermione's hand. She absent-mindedly thumbed the pages. She hadn't meant to read what he'd written, but she couldn't help but notice his tight scrawl. It was so illegible, that to a passerby, such as Hermione, it might as well have been in a different language. She handed it to Theo. "I guess I'm not completely useless."

Theo smirked and shelved the notebook. "I wasn't the one who said that."

The smell of food wafted through the door before Blaise even made it to the top step. He entered with his arms full of takeout bags and a dusting of snow on top of his beanie. "I think I have enough chicken tikka masala to last us a week, so we better get started." He flicked his beanie in Theo's direction as he passed, causing flecks of snow to land on Theo's black sweater. Hermione's mouth watered. 

Draco exited his bedroom wearing a fresh set of clothes. He took his seat at the head of the table, claiming two boxes of food for himself. He held one above his head as he locked eyes with Hermione, a quizzical eyebrow raised, daring her to challenge him. "Granger-"

Theo cut Draco off before he could finish. The second box of food flew into Theo's hand, which he handed to Hermione. "She's done with your games for tonight," he said, sinking into the seat directly opposite from Draco. "Give it a rest."


	6. the azalea

" _Lumos. Nox._ " Hermione stood at the kitchen counter, absent-mindedly stirring a pot of pasta while practicing the few spells she knew. " _Accio_ salt." After a week of living with the three boys, she had begun to pick up on their habits. Theo spent most of his time at home, though he had left the house once, and was eerily quiet for the rest of the day when he returned. Blaise went out often, usually with Pansy, but he had a few other friends from Hogwarts that he had met for drinks or "business." Draco's schedule was the most unpredictable. Most days, he was gone before she woke. Sometimes he returned before lunch, other times not until well after dinner. And only on the rarest occasions did they cook. 

"He's a glorified intern for his father," Blaise told her when she asked again what it was that Draco did. "I think it's mostly simple data entry and fetching coffee for the higher-ups. He says it's boring, but it pays for this apartment and it has great networking opportunities." No matter how many times she asked, Blaise and Theo skirted around the question of what exactly his occupation was. 

Hermione had since past realized that Draco, in general, was an off-limits topic of conversation, so she didn't push any further. Any sliver of information she could glean about the mechanics of the Wizarding World was a godsend.

She had flown through _A History of Magic_ , having stayed up into the early hours of the morning to read it. It had been fascinating, but not particularly relevant, as it mostly discussed a time when the Ministry of Magic was run like a democracy. A volume about the current authoritarian regime would be more helpful, but unlikely to exist.

She'd moved on to a memoir by someone called Gilderoy Lockhart, although Theo had advised her that it was not an entirely truthful account. He then promised to look for a spellbook so she could teach herself at her own pace, but it would take some time. Under the Ordinance, spellbooks were banned and any magical instruction that took place outside of Hogwarts was forbidden. Hermione added that to her mental list of laws that Theo, Blaise, and Draco had broken for her sake.

"Theo!" someone called from the alcove near the front door. Hermione jumped at the sudden sound and relaxed only marginally when Draco entered the kitchen. "Theo, I think I have a lead!" The slap of his soles on the wooden floor echoed as he slipped out of his shoes. "Oh," he said when he laid eyes on Hermione.

She quirked one corner of her mouth in a half-hearted attempt at a smile and turned her attention back to the pasta. "How was your day?" she asked, hoping that perhaps today would be the day he decided to act with any semblance of civility. Then again, she had hoped that every day so far, and every day, she had been wrong.

He set a book down on the kitchen table and pulled at his tie. "Do you ever stop asking questions?"

She stopped stirring and blinked at him, eyebrows knitting together. "It's called having manners." She drained the pasta and wiped her hands on, before turning to Draco. "And if everyone here weren't so secretive, I might not have so many."

He draped his blazer over the back of a chair and worked at the top button at his shirt. "You've been here long enough to know that if you want candor, you should talk to Theo. Have you seen him, by the way?"

She shook her head, watching in fascination as he combed his fingers through his hair. In less than thirty seconds, he had unwound himself right before her eyes. 

He frowned and lifted his chin. "What are you doing?"

She tore her gaze away from him. "Look who's asking questions now," she muttered, pouring the pasta back into the pot and mixing in the sauce.

"I pay for the apartment; I pay for the right to know what goes on in it."

She held her arms out and gestured to the food. "I'm making dinner." _Obviously._ "You can't eat out seven days a week. It's not sustainable. Or healthy."

Draco sniffed. "At least you've found something to do that's more useful than sitting in the dark and turning the lights on and off," he said, taking a seat and propping his legs on the chair next to him. He laid a hand flat on his stomach as he reclined. _Couldn't he at least take his shoes off before putting his feet on the furniture?_

Heat rose in Hermione's cheeks. _Ignore him. Go back to making dinner. He opened up his home to you, he doesn't owe you anything else._ Even so, she felt the tips of her fingers spark to life as she pressed her nails into the palm of her hands until they left crescent-shaped marks on her flesh. When the heat left her fingertips and singed her palms, she released them and darted for her wand, desperate to channel the power through a filter. In that brief moment when her hands were free, she felt the magic surge through her and toward Draco.

When the spell hit him, Draco let out a small laugh, and quickly ended the spell without even taking out his wand. Hermione stilled, the wand just beyond her fingertips. Something flickered behind his eyes, but his usual, arrogant facade returned before she could process it. She righted herself, pleased that, even if she couldn't control her abilities, there was less risk of destruction under this roof. "That was good," Draco said with a smirk, placing his feet back on the floor with painful deliberation. "If the Death Eaters militarize a nursery, you can take out the infants with that impeccable Tickling Charm. Theo's doing a great job with you."

She didn't even know the incantation for a Tickling Charm, but of course, Draco didn't need to know that. "If you're not satisfied with my progress, could always help." She moved to begin working on the salad. If she ignored him persistently enough, he'd have to leave her alone eventually. 

"As I recall, the two of you weren't happy with my approach, so I'm taking a step back."

"Would you consider taking another step back? The sardonic remarks are counterproductive. Not to mention, you're an insufferable ass to me and to your frie-"

" _Silencio._ " Hermione's eyes widened as her jaw snapped shut. Her cheeks flushed impossibly more as she clenched and unclenched her fists. She lifted her wand, only to slam it back down on the counter. Draco stood, the ugliest, smuggest smile plastered on his face, and took a threatening step forward. Her heart sped, and she wrapped her arms around herself. The protective gesture was useless, but Draco had been right: she wasn't good enough at magic to defend herself, even with the use of her voice. "But the sardonic remarks make things so much more fun for me." She sidestepped him as he moved closer, which only made his smile spread.

He cocked his head and plucked a strawberry she'd been cutting, popping it into his mouth. "You can do wordless and wandless magic." He moved one of the strawberries between them. "Show me. Lift the strawberry." Hermione's eyes darkened. The surge in her veins was gone. She'd depleted her power. At this point, without her wand, she was as useless as a Muggle. Why bother trying if Draco would only mock her for it later?

He relaxed against the kitchen counter and let his wand fall to his side, making it clear he wasn't going to harm her. While she waited for either Draco to remove the spell, or Blaise and Theo to return, she turned away from him, impatiently tapping her bare foot on the tile floor. Angry tears still pricked at the corner of her eyes, but her muscles had relaxed. She could blame the tears on the chopped onion in the pasta sauce. Not that Draco would care enough to ask. 

"Nothing? Pity," Draco said after he finished swallowing the fruit. "Fortunately, your sardonic remarks amuse me as well. _Finite_."

Even though her jaws unlocked as he spoke, Hermione kept her lips shut as she continued to toss the salad. If her comments were so amusing to him, she wasn't inclined to indulge him.

"What?" he growled, leaning closer, so his lips nearly brushed her hair. His cool, minty breath grazed her ear. "You're not even going to tell me what a dick I am?"

"Sounds like you already know." She struggled to keep her voice even.

He shrugged and took a clement step back. "If you ask Blaise, he'd say my ego could stand to be knocked down a peg."

She crushed a strawberry beneath her palm. _Is that what you want?_ she wanted to scream. _Do you want me to fight you and call you names? Or do you want to hear about how scared I am? That every damn day I learn another terrible thing about your world, including the fact that at any moment, someone can walk through that door, slap a collar on me like a fucking dog, and take away my freedom. So yes, I'm angry that you had the nerve to take away the one thing that's still truly mine, and I'm terrified that the next time I walk out the front door, someone even more unpleasant than you will do something worse. Does hearing that make you feel better?_

Instead, she jabbed her wand into his chest. He took a step back. "What kind of reaction are you hoping to get out of me, Malfoy?"

The mask of steely indifference never faltered, and his words were just as callous. "Whatever it takes to ensure that you'll fight back. Theo, Blaise, and I are putting our lives on the line to protect you. You better earn that protection every day."

She scoffed. "You're unbelievable. There are better ways-"

Draco waved a hand through the air, dismissing her rebuttal. "I don't care. This is _my_ way."

She flexed her fingers, wishing the heat would return to her, if only so she could prove him wrong.

"You know, you're not the only one who's been through shit. I can promise you, it's only going to get worse." He took a step toward her, backing her against the counter. Hermione swallowed. He craned his neck to look down at her, but at least they had established that as uncomfortable as he made her, he wouldn't harm her. She clung to that truth like a lifeline; somehow an anchor and a buoy at the same time. "There are nine circles of hell, Granger. This is just the beginning."

A deafening pop sounded in the apartment. Draco sprang away from Hermione, while she wrapped her fingers around her wand, ready to defend herself with the most powerful Tickling Charm she could produce. If she could even recreate it.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" Theo said before anyone could scold him. "I forgot you didn't know about Apparition, and by the time I remembered, it was already too late."

Hermione nodded, trying not to appear too surprised. "You can teleport." _How does that work? Do his atoms dissolve and reconstruct themselves, or does magic simply allow time and space to bend at one's own will?_ Magic may have defied all the laws of science as she understood them, but that didn't mean it didn't have its own set of rules.

"Where have you been?" Draco asked him, still taking steps to put as much distance between himself and Hermione as possible.

"St. Mungo's."

Draco paused, his eyes zoning in on Theo. "And?"

"No change. No need to worry. Are you cooking?" he asked Hermione, deftly avoiding whatever subject Draco seemed so keen to talk about.

"No, I can't cook for the life of me, but I can make pasta and salad." She held up the bowls. "Is Blaise going to be back soon or should we eat without him?"

"He's out for drinks with Crabbe and Goyle," Theo said. "We don't have to wait up." He took it upon himself to bring the food to the table, while Hermione distributed clean dishes and utensils. Draco didn't move from his seat at the table. If Theo sensed any tension between the two of them, he didn't say so. Hermione as far away from Draco as possible, out of both frustration and embarrassment. She wasn't sure what game he was playing, but she was certain about one thing: she would not allow herself to be used as his pawn. He wanted her to fight back; she'd fight. But that was going to be the first and last time she ever let her guard down in front of him.

The boys slipped into a conversation full of inside jokes and references to their school days. Hermione tuned them out as she shoveled mouthfuls of salad into her mouth.

_I am a witch._

_I am a Muggle-born._

_Voldemort hates me._

_The Death Eaters want to kill me._

_I will not let them._

_I am a witch._

Each time she repeated the words in her mind, the truth became more cerebral, cementing itself into the corners of her aching mind. 

She now realized, her first mistake was giving in to her emotions. Despite Draco's assessment, anger and fear would not serve her. This matter of life and death was little more than an equation. She had a fact, a variable, and an outcome.

All she had to do was solve for _x_ and hope it was the correct one.

_I am a witch._

After Draco finished off his pasta, Theo opened a bottle of Butterbeer and offered one to Draco. Hermione, after taking a sip of Theo's, declined her own bottle. Maybe she would have liked it when she was younger, but it was far too sugary for her developed tastebuds. Had her parents been there, Draco and Theo would have been subjected to a lengthy lecture about the importance of gum health. 

But her parents weren't there. And Hermione wouldn't dwell on it.

_I am a Muggle-born._

When the conversation turned back to her, Hermione was snapped out of her reverie. "You didn't tell me she could do wordless and wandless spells," Draco said.

Theo shrugged. "What did you think I meant when I said she burned her house down? That she pulled out a twig and cast _Incendio_?"

"I meant just before you got home." He winked at Hermione. "Our girl can do a mean Tickling Charm without her wand."

Without warning, Hermione shot up from her chair and collected their dirty dishes. "I am not your girl," she said through clenched teeth. She dumped the dishes in the sink. If she were at home, she would have immediately started washing, but she'd seen the boys clean dishes at the snap of a finger. She'd leave Draco the minuscule inconvenience. "And it was an accident, just like the first time."

"That doesn't mean it always has to be." Theo placed his metallic Butterbeer cap in front of her. "Try again. Without the words first."

Hermione let out a breath of doubt. She wanted to decline. The thought of failing at the simplest spells under Draco's heedful eye made her want to fold herself into a paper plane and go anywhere else. But Theo nodded at her with the most hopeful glint in his eye. She lifted her wand. _Wingardium Leviosa_. Swish and flick.

The cap didn't so much as twitch.

"Were you thinking the words?" Draco asked. His eyes were wide, seemingly innocent, mocking her.

Hermione didn't respond. She raised her wand again. Swish and flick. The cap remained immobile on the table. "We'll work on it," Theo said. "It takes time."

Time. That was the variable. In order to solve the equation, _x_ needed to be prolonged as much as possible.

"But how are we going to stop her from _accidentally_ performing bothersome, if not lethal, magic in the meantime?"

"As long as the spells are directed at you, I don't see much of an issue," Theo said.

Hermione bit back a smile as Draco scowled. "You know, I'm very much-"

Another resounding pop rang in Hermione's ears. She hit her elbow on the corner of the counter as she jumped backward in surprise. Blaise appeared behind Draco, sweat beaded across his forehead. "Get out," he panted. Hermione's eyes widened and darted around the apartment, searching for an escape route, while her feet remained glued to the floor. "Draco, get her out of here. Now."

Draco pushed back from the table, reaching Hermione in two long strides. "Where?"

"I don't know, Apparate to Paris, for all I care. Just fucking _go_."

"What's going on?" Theo demanded, still seated. 

Draco placed an arm around Hermione's shoulders. "This is going to suck," he warned her, sounding as though he enjoyed that fact. She clutched her wand to her chest, fighting the urge to throw his arm off of her.

A final, thunderous sound shook the ground beneath Hermione's feet as one more person landed in the kitchen. Draco took a step forward, pushing Hermione behind him. She caught only a glimpse of the pale, willowy girl with striking dark hair.

"Blaise, I cannot believe you would-"

"Fuck," Draco whispered.

"Oh, my God," the girl said, her voice raspy and low. 

Hermione poked her head around Draco's arm.

"Pansy, why must you ruin everything?" Theo asked, dragging a hand down his face.

The girl—Pansy—stared at Hermione. Her blood-red lips parted as she drank in the scene in front of her. Hermione, wearing one of Blaise's old t-shirts with her hair in a loose, frizzy braid, was dwarfed by the other girl. Clad in all black, including knee-high, high-heeled boots, Pansy stood like the sun revolved around her, and she knew it. Hermione watched as Pansy's dark eyes moved from Draco's stance to the wand in Hermione's hand and then back to Theo.

She took a step back, the crisp knock of her stilettos on the wood floor sounded to Hermione like the pounding of a hammer on the nail in her coffin. "Oh, my God." She repeated, rubbing a hand on the base of her throat. "Please, for the love of Helga Hufflepuff, tell me this isn't what it looks like."


	7. the pansy

Pansy Parkinson seemed to be cut from glass. Like Draco, everything about her was severe: from the sharp cut of her jaw to her hair, cut in a sleek, bob with a precise center-part, to her diction and enunciation. If she shattered, Hermione thought, her shards would cause more damage to anyone unfortunate enough to be standing within her radius.

"You must be joking," Pansy said, one fist propped on her hip, while the other hand ran through the short length of her hair repeatedly. "How reckless can you be?" She hadn't stopped pacing since she arrived. Aside from their coloring, it was the one difference between Draco and Pansy that Hermione had spotted: she was listless. He was still. Hermione couldn't decide which made her more nervous.

Draco had draped himself over the back of a chair, leaving Hermione exposed. "Us?" he asked, pressing his knuckles into the table. "You should know better than to Apparate somewhere uninvited."

"You should have come up with a better excuse than 'Theo's not feeling well.'"

"Do not blame this on us." His knuckles blanched as he dug them further into the wood. "It is not my fault you're incapable of listening to a word we say."

"This all could have been avoided with a simple Apparition ward-"

"Which we need a permit for," Blaise said. "What reason do you suggest we give to the Ministry for needing a force field around our apartment?"

Pansy gestured to Draco. "Have Daddy Malfoy call in a favor. Or better yet, don't break the law in the first place."

"Are you saying we should turn her over to Voldemort?" Theo asked.

She splayed her hands in front of her. "I am saying, when you see a stray, you give it a treat and point it in the right direction. You don't bring it into your home."

Hermione flinched. Her teeth clamped onto her bottom lip. _Enough with the canine imagery._

"You're preaching to the choir," Draco muttered with a sigh. Theo shot him a glare, which went ignored. "Anything else to get off your chest?"

"Only about a million questions," she said. "How long has she been here?"

"Only a few days."

"How long is she staying?"

Draco glanced back at Hermione, considering his options. "To be determined."

Pansy finally stopped pacing and turned to face Hermione. Hermione lengthened her neck and squared her hips, fighting the compulsion to shrink under Pansy's scrutiny. "Does she have any clothes?" Hermione looked down at the oversized sweatshirt and boxer shorts she was wearing, thinking her outfit spoke for itself. She tugged at the plait in her hair: she was down to her last hair tie, and the rate she went through them, she'd been surprised this one had lasted all week. 

Silence settled over the kitchen. "She's been borrowing ours," Theo said, ducking his head and scratching the back of his neck.

She shook her head and addressed Hermione directly. "Did they give you deodorant or only Axe body spray? Do you have any clean underwear? Or even any tampons?"

Theo cleared his throat and scratched the back of his head. Pansy turned her dark, penetrating stare to him. Her profile showed off the high arch in her nose. It made her look less feminine but no less beautiful. "Oh, grow up," she said with a sneer.

The truth was, they hadn't. Theo had offered to clean her only outfit with a Scouring Charm, but he'd gone beet red when she handed him her lacy bra and knickers. She'd decided to save him any further embarrassment and accepted the boxers they'd lent her.

She'd been avoiding learning the Scouring Charm herself, on the chance that Draco take advantage of it and pass all of his chores to her in exchange for his "protection". Perhaps it would be worth the risk.

"For the record," Blaise interjected, "none of us use Axe body spray."

"No," Hermione answered before Pansy could turn her glare to Blaise. Hermione felt heat rise up the back of her neck. For the past few days, she had been a Muggle-born first and foremost. Now, Pansy had drawn attention to the most obvious, but least relevant aspect of her situation at present time.

She hadn't even considered the need for tampons. 

Pansy rolled her eyes so far back, Hermione could have sworn her entire iris disappeared. "Boys," she muttered and reached for her wand. "I'll be right back."

Draco righted himself. "No."

Pansy sidestepped his outstretched arm. "I'm just going to grab a few things. I'll be right back."

"Wait," Blaise stopped her with a firm hand on her shoulder, pushing her into a chair. "I'll go to your apartment."

Pansy shrugged, exasperated. "Fine. Stay out of my closet."

"I made that mistake once, and I will never make it again," Blaise said. With an elaborate spin, he disappeared into thin air. This time, Hermione didn't wince at the electrifying crack.

Pansy looked Hermione up and down once more before blinking rapidly and turning back to Theo. "How are you feeling?" she asked, a new tenderness in her voice.

Theo slung an arm around the back of his chair in a poor attempt at looking relaxed. "I'm well. How are you?"

"That's not what I meant." She leaned forward, planting her elbows on the table.

He lifted one shoulder. "I feel worse when you two try to talk to me about it," he said, bitterness creeping into his tone.

Pansy held up her hands, feigning surrender. "Got it. My apologies." Her attention returned to Hermione. "Can I at least know your name?"

"I'm Herm-"

"The less you know, the better," Draco interrupted.

Pansy wrinkled her nose. "I didn't ask you."

Hermione decided she liked Pansy. "I'm Hermione."

Draco let out a low, guttural sound of protest.

Pansy flashed a smile, exposing a row of perfect, blinding teeth. Whether it was a gesture of kindness to Hermione, or a reaction to satisfactorily frustrating Draco, Hermione didn't know. Either way, the feeling was mutual. "Pleasure to meet you, Hermione. I'm Pansy Parkinson. It's unfortunate we won't be seeing more of each other, but I do hope you won't believe everything these tossers tell you about me in the future."

"You know, funnily enough, we don't talk about you as often as you might think," Theo retorted.

Considering how often Hermione had overheard her name, she couldn't believe that was true.

"The more you say that, the less I believe you."

In the lull that followed, Blaise returned to the apartment with an armful of clothing and toiletries. "Here, take these," he said to Hermione, gesturing with his chin to the soap, razors, and tampons on top of the pile. "I'll drop these in Theo's room for you."

"Did you bring some underwear?" Pansy called after him.

"Yes, and I never want to look in that drawer ever again."

Pansy leaned back, a satisfied smile on her lips. "Brilliant. Can you think of anything else you'll need?"

Hermione beheld the comprehensive set of essentials that had been missing from Draco's apartment until this point: conditioner, feminine products, soap that didn't smell like the outdoors or nondescript spices. And the holy grail: hair ties. "No, this is... amazing. Thank you." This was the girl that they were so worried about telling Voldemort? Why would she be so kind to Hermione if she was planning on exposing her?

"Great." She brushed a strand of hair away from her eyes and stood. Draco left his post and moved to meet her halfway, but kept a respectful distance. "Let's get this over with."

"I'm sorry," he said, lifting a hand to cup her face. His voice cracked. "I wish I didn't have to."

"I know." She pulled his hand away from her by the wrist and gave him a reassuring smile. "When we're done, you have to get me really drunk, and then throw a fit."

Draco shook his head, recoiling from Pansy's touch. "I'm not going to do that."

She stepped forward. "You have to. Find a reason to pick a fight. Throw something. Call me a name. Do whatever you have to do, but make it hurt, otherwise, I'll keep coming back."

"You're too determined for your own good." Draco closed his eyes and rested his forehead on Pansy's. Hermione moved her gaze to look at the floor. 

Their bond ran deep, but Hermione's presence was about to cause irreparable damage to it.

"Don't hate me forever," he whispered, pressing a kiss to her forehead. They'd done this dance before. 

"I won't hate you," she promised, lifting her prominent nose in the air. She took his hand in hers and lifted it to her mouth, returning his favor with a small kiss on his palm. "I could never hate you."

He took a step back with a sharp inhale. "I'll make it up to you."

One corner of Pansy's lip twitched. "I know. I'm proud of you." She looked over his shoulder at Hermione, casting a soft smile. If there was any lingering resentment toward her, Pansy hid it well. "Good luck."

Before Hermione could respond, Theo took her by the elbow and ushered her into his bedroom, removing her from her front seat, right at the grand finale.

" _Obliviate._ "

Theo shut the door behind him. The curtain closed.

"Lock the door," he ordered. "Stay in here until tomorrow. I'll get you when you can come out."

She looked over his shoulder; a futile action. "What's going on?"

Theo shot an anxious glance at the closed door. He placed one hand on each of her shoulders and sat her down on the bed. "Please, keep it down." Hermione shuffled backward on the bed and wrapped her arms around her knees. The toiletries in her arms spilled across the bedspread, onto the floor. "She doesn't remember you exist. Let's keep it that way."

"But why- I- how?"

"That's her Tithe. Her mind, her memories, none of it belongs to her." Theo rushed to explain as he rubbed a hand over his tired face.

Hermione's shoulders sank as she leaned her head against the wall. There were no limits. No boundaries. Only so much safety could be found in Draco's apartment, in her anonymity, even in the depths of her own mind. "Voldemort can read minds?"

"More or less." Theo clenched his fists. 

"So-" She paused and restarted her sentence, forcing her voice to lower an octave. "So if he got a hold of any one of you-"

Theo shook his head. He lifted his arms and splayed his palms as he approached her, like he was trying not to spook a wounded animal. "Don't spiral. Don't think about it. He's never been interested in us. He gets all the information he needs from Pansy. And even if he wanted to, Draco and Blaise know how to block him from getting in."

 _Don't spiral._ She nodded, but she couldn't keep her imagination from spinning out of control. No part of her was safe. And it wasn't just her. If Voldemort entered her mind, he'd know about her parents, her friends, everyone she'd ever met.

But she was safe here, if nowhere else, in this prison of Eden, with Theo, and Blaise, and even Draco, who would keep her safe as long as her safety guaranteed his. It was a far cry from the unconditional love and protection she received from her parents, but it was working thus far.

Kind of.

_One day at a time._

_They want to kill me. I will not let them._

Theo's fingers tightened around her shoulder. Hermione savored the pressure; the intrepid tactility. "Look, Draco made her forget, and he's going to keep her from coming back, so you won't have to worry about her." He pressed her wand into her hand. She felt the power in her bones still with its presence. "Stay here. Practice a few spells. Go to sleep early. And no matter what, don't come out. Okay?"

"Okay," she said, fingering the splintering wood. 

"Okay," Theo repeated, peeling his hands off of her arms. "I'll see you tomorrow."

 _Tomorrow._ One day at a time.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · · 

The milk had gone sour, but Draco drank it in his coffee anyway. After his fight with Pansy, he figured he could stomach almost anything.

Her drunkenness, he hoped, would explain any blank spots in her memory should Voldemort perform Legilimency on her. His drunkenness, on the other hand, would hopefully make her feel more inclined to forgive him, whenever he worked up the balls to ask.

And whenever they had done something about the obstinate head of hair in Theo's bedroom. 

The sun had risen, but Draco had not yet gone to sleep. After he had preyed on Pansy's deepest insecurities, she had thrown a full bottle of tequila at his head and stormed out. Theo passed out on the couch. Blaise had gone after Pansy in an attempt to mitigate the damage in an ostensible ploy to make Draco's charade appear more authentic. Draco resigned himself to the kitchen table for the rest of the night, scribbling in his notebook, trying to untangle to giant knot in his mind. Each thread was a different person: Pansy, Theo, Blaise, Hermione, Voldemort, his father. Each problem he solved only led to a new, more complicated knot.

He forced himself to take another sip of coffee and scrubbed at the stubble forming along his jawline, and the dry skin off of his forehead. Before he saw his mother next, he needed to shave, get a haircut, and moisturize his face. 

His mother. He would need an excuse to keep her from coming around to the apartment. Narcissa didn't come often, but when she did, she arrived unexpectedly and with no conceptions of privacy. Draco supposed he would have to start making regular visits to the East Wing of the Manor, so she didn't feel like showing up to his home unannounced was the only way she could see him. Despite his reluctance to attach himself any further to his father or his father's home, with any luck, he could leverage this new commitment and work it to his advantage.

Theo let out one final snore before he shot straight up and rubbed his eyes. "What time is it?" he croaked.

"Half-past seven."

A tired groan escaped him. "Did Blaise come home yet?"

"No." The image of Blaise and Pansy tangled in her bedsheets flooded the forefront of his mind. As soon as he saw it, he pushed it down, along with the bile that rose in his throat.

As if he could sense Draco's thoughts, Theo asked, "How are you going to make it up to her?"

"I'm not, for now. Not until we deal with..." he jerked his head toward Theo's bedroom, where Hermione was. Draco tapped the tip of his wand to the front cover of his notebook, encoding all that he had written to ensure no one would be able to decipher his words. He then sent it to the wall, where it placed itself back on the bookshelf.

Stretching his arms over his head, Theo stood. Draco cringed as he heard Theo's joints crack. "Have you thought about it?"

Draco kept his eyes fixed on his own fingers, interlaced neatly in front of him. He squeezed his hands together. It was always on _him_ to clean up the mess.

 _That's not fair,_ he corrected himself. They were all doing the best they could. "It's all I think about."

"And?"

"And you're not going to like either of my ideas." He stood to dump out the rest of his coffee. "If you ask me, our best course of action would be to _Obliviate_ her and give her back to her parents." He scrubbed the empty mug by hand, desperate to give his hands something to do and to keep his eyes away from Theo. "Otherwise, we can always send her to the Order of the Phoenix."

Theo lowered his voice. "She'd be dead weight. They wouldn't have any resources to waste on her."

"I'm sure they'd find some use for her," Draco muttered, but he knew Theo was right. The Order of the Phoenix was a bunch of self-righteous prats, claiming to be noble and self-sacrificial while they allowed natural selection to run its course. Hermione would be dead within a week if she didn't learn to control herself. Maybe in a couple of months, he could drop her off with the blood-traitors. If they lived that long, that is. 

"What if we got her a safe house?"

"It wouldn't solve anything. You'd have to go back and forth to make sure she eats and to teach her spells. If the Death Eaters decided to track your moves, it'd raise suspicions."

Theo nodded. "So this is the safest place for her."

Draco forced his fingers to unclench from the handle of the ceramic mug. His eyes darkened as he stared out the window above the sink. A happy couple strode by on the pavement, walking their dog. Across the street, a lanky redhead took a long drag of a cigarette. Draco had to do a double-take to ensure it wasn't a Weasley. "Which means it's the most dangerous place for us."

Theo remained silent. In Draco's opinion, they had glossed over the _Obliviate and remove_ option far too quickly. 

Draco forced himself to look at his friend, to memorize the shadows under his lines, the visible silver scars that painted his forearms. "Snape is supposed to be at the Manor this week," he said. "He might know about some-"

Theo's head snapped to look at him, his eyes narrower than Draco had ever seen them. "You can't ask Snape."

Draco sighed. He seemed to be doing that a lot lately. Interlocking his fingers behind his neck, he said, "Theo..."

"You can't bring anyone else into this. If You-Know-Who finds out..." Theo's voice trembled, sounding as frail as the bones that held him upright.

Draco pulled his elbows together and looked up at the ceiling, suppressing a groan. After all the progress they had made in calling him _Voldemort,_ this was all it took to revert back to old habits.

That was the one good thing about having a neophyte in the house: Hermione would learn to fear the man, not the name. In that respect, she was leaps and bounds ahead of the rest of them.

"I'm serious, Draco."

"I know. I know. I'll work something else out. I'm sorry." He tugged at the roots of his hair. This might have been Theo's burden, but it was Draco's cross to bear.

Theo's shoulders released. His usual carefree, boyish smile returned. "Are you hungry?"

Draco shook his head, already striding out of the kitchen. "No. I'm going to shower."

Theo didn't push him any further, for which Draco was grateful. Just as he reached the threshold that connected the kitchen to the hallway, Hermione poked her head out of Theo's door. "Is Pansy gone?"

"She's been gone for hours," Draco said without looking at her.

"Oh." The door opened wider. She stepped into the doorframe. "Theo told me he'd get me when it was okay to come out, but I guess-"

"He fell asleep." _At least she's capable of following orders._ "You can come out now."He had about a thousand other things he wanted to say—and scream— to her, but truthfully it wasn't her fault or her problem.

"Right."

The tension rose in the air like smoke. Hermione hovered in the doorway, twirling a curl around her finger like she said something else to say, but Draco had neither the time nor the energy to wait for her to spit it out. He pushed at the bathroom door.

"Draco?" she asked, her words slipping out like she was in a hurry. She always spoke like she was in a hurry, even when she quite literally had nowhere to be. He paused, his hand still taut and flat against the wooden door.

_You better not fucking say thank you._

"I'm sorry," she said. His palm relaxed. "For making you do that."

"You didn't make me do anything," he said, not in an attempt to console her; he simply didn't want her to get a false impression that she held any kind of power over him.

"You were in that position because of me."

"It's not the same thing." It occurred to him that Theo was listening to their conversation, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

She cleared her throat. "I just- I know you didn't do it for me, but I'm still grateful. And I know you don't like me much, but I admire you for doing everything you can to protect Theo and Blaise." She picked at her cuticles. "I know how hard that must have been."

He pulled the door shut. "Do you?" he asked, his bitterness colored by a humorous tone. He turned to look at her, head-on.

Her eyes darted to the side. "Yes. I had to leave my parents-"

He shook his head. He felt all blood and all sense of reason drain from his head. "That's not the same thing either. What I did- that was a sacrifice. You're just an out-of-control, vacuous witch who was in the wrong place at the wrong time, but somehow still ended up as the luckiest Muggle-born in all of Britain." She shrunk back into the doorframe, but she kept her shoulders squared and chin lifted, the battlefield in her eyes on full display. _To fight or not to fight? That is the eternal question: to suffer in silence or risk further damnation._ Draco scoffed and turned back to the bathroom door, leaving Hermione to weigh her options in peace.

He couldn't help thinking, as he stepped under the hot water, that had she'd been allowed to attend Hogwarts, she would have been placed in Gryffindor.


	8. the magnolia

Draco held his head high as he walked through the gates of Hell. The empty marble hallways were silent as he entered Malfoy Manor, save for the echo of his boots on the tile floor. Shadows skirted in and out of his view: the house-elves, most likely, but he didn't look closely enough to be certain.

All warmth was leached from Draco's bones by the time he reached the ballroom. The heavy oak door was closed, but he could hear the muffled voice of his father on the other side.

A gaunt, pale girl with a thick band of silver around her throat approached him. He cleared his throat and removed his cloak, even though it was as cold within the Manor as it was outside. She was so thin, he feared she would sink with the weight of the dense cloak, but he handed it to her anyway. He straightened his tie, ignoring the disdainful glare the girl threw his way. The servants at the Manor had learned long ago that Draco didn't mind their hostility as much as the Death Eaters did. If it made them feel better, they could be as overt in their hatred of him as they wished, as long as they kept their mouths shut and did their jobs. 

It changed nothing. They were all trapped, just with different bonds. 

He rolled his shoulders back and sucked in a deep breath, holding it as long as he possibly could. When his lungs reached their capacity, he exhaled and nodded to the girl, averting his eyes from her marred face. She dipped her head and held the door open for him. The movement was routine; rehearsed, even though she'd only been at the Manor for a week. 

Her name was Alice, he remembered, despite the painstaking effort he'd taken to clear her from his mind. He wondered if there were even one other person still alive that knew her name, or if she'd die here, nameless and forgotten. He missed the days when the servants were numbered. At least then, Draco could refer to them as _something_ in his mind. Unfortunately, by the time Draco was ten years old, Voldemort had enslaved so many Mudbloods, it became impossible to keep count. When they were teenagers, Draco, Crabbe, and Goyle created derogatory nicknames for some of them, just to keep them straight. He received a swift flogging when his father found out. Lucius assured him that if Voldemort had been the one to discover it, his punishment would have been much worse.

 _Slaves are property, and pieces of property do not require names,_ Lucius explained.

 _House-elves have names_ , Draco argued. He hadn't seen the problem. It wasn't like he had shown any kindness to the round woman who brought him his breakfast each morning by calling her _the Cow._

 _House-elves have no delusions about liberty or emancipation,_ Lucius snapped. _House-elves know their place. Until Mudbloods learn the same, you do not address them unless you are giving them orders._

The servant followed Draco into the ballroom and tucked herself against the back wall. On the opposite side of the room, a robed figure stood, silhouetted by the sunshine filtering through the large window. Nagini, Voldemort's wretched snake, slid over Draco's boots before leading him halfway across the ballroom floor. The cloying scent of decay was so strong, he could almost feel his own teeth rotting, but he didn't dare look around the room for its source.

Nagini stopped when they reached the center of the floor, in line with the fireplace. The green flames flickered, casting a sickly, pale glow over the room. Obediently, Draco halted and clicked his heels together to announce his arrival, as if Voldemort didn't sense his presence the moment he arrived.

"Draco," Voldemort said, his orotund voice filling the room as he spun to face his audience of one. With Voldemort, every movement was a performance. "How kind of you to join us!"

Draco inclined his head. In his periphery, he saw Pansy standing beside his parents next to the fireplace. Narcissa clasped her trembling hands in front of her. His father narrowed his eyes and jerked his head forward. Squeezing his eyes shut, Draco bent at the waist, bowing low. "My Lord," he said to his feet. Voldemort waved a hand. Draco rose but remained front and center.

"I was just giving Parkinson instructions for a mission I'd like the two of you to complete. Would you be so kind, my dear," he addressed Pansy, "to fill him in on the details this afternoon?"

Draco kept his eyes forward, on Voldemort's flat, grinning face. She took half a second too long to answer, and Voldemort's smile slipped. "Of course, Master," she finally said, her words sugary.

"Wonderful," said Voldemort, his forked tongue flicking over his lips. "Draco, I believe Bellatrix has an assignment for you in the basement."

Draco blinked. Before this week, it had been months since Voldemort had asked him to do anything apart from the Registry and the occasional Tithe collection. Out of the blue, he'd been asked to accompany the Regiments, and now these two new missions. Why Voldemort was giving him regular field assignments again?

He bowed once more, as much a show of his submission as it was to hide the look of surprise on his face. "Certainly, my Lord." He spun on his heel and met his mother's wide, watery eyes. He pursed his lip and nodded to her, signaling he would speak to her later; he couldn't keep Bellatrix waiting. Following Nagini back toward the hallway, he couldn't avoid the sight of three bodies piled atop one another in the corner. He couldn't deny, he was curious about who was responsible. Given that wasn't on speaking terms with Pansy, he wouldn't get the answer from her, but maybe she would spill to Blaise. The bodies had been piled there for days, judging by the smell. Nagini must have been rather full not to have devoured them already.

Alice—the girl, the _servant,_ he corrected himself—opened the door for him again. A rush of cold air settled over him as he left the warmth of the fire.

"I'll take my cloak back now," he said to her.

She muttered, "Yes, sir," and held out the heavy velvet.

He slung it over his shoulders and tied it loosely across his chest. The weight of the fabric was comforting in the wintry chill. "And fetch my mother a cup of tea, will you? She's shaking like a leaf."

She sucked on the inside of her scarred cheek, emboldened enough to look him in the eye. He raised an eyebrow. "Yes, sir," she replied, lowering her eyes once again as she headed to the kitchen.

Draco remained in front of the door to the ballroom. Once the girl disappeared around the corner, he leaned his ear against the dark oak, but heard nothing. He placed his palm flat against the door and felt a familiar, electric buzz through the wood. Someone had cast _Muffliato_ on the room. He balled his hand into a fist before turning away, stopping in the library to find his mask.

He felt the screams well before he heard them. The dungeons, like the ballroom, were enchanted so no noise escaped, but that didn't stop the sound waves from shaking the foundation of the house, or permeating his bones as he jogged down the stairs. When he crossed the magical threshold, the first thing he heard was his aunt's maniacal laughter, followed shortly by a shrill scream. At the last step, he placed the gold and black mask on his face. Mercifully, the Death Eaters did not keep any dead bodies in the dungeon— the smell bothered Bellatrix too much.

A thin layer of liquid covered the floor, soaking through the seems of Draco's boots. He hoped it was only water that had seeped through the walls during the last rainstorm, but it could have been anything. Sloshing through the liquid, he passed a few unconscious bodies, lying in pools of their own blood, sweat, tears, and urine: the putrid scent gave no specifics. It hovered in the air, rancid and metallic on his tongue, like an old coin. Funny how the smell of human excrement didn't deter Bellatrix, but rotting flesh did. He had no idea how she could stand the stench for hours on end without gagging, although he supposed she had no choice but to acclimate. He wrinkled his nose, grateful for the mask. 

One boy, probably around Draco's age, curled on his side in the corner, sobbed into his drenched sweater. A girl, no more than ten, cupped handfuls of the liquid on the ground into her mouth, gagging as she swallowed it. He knew from working upstairs that prisoners were supposed to receive food and water at least once a day. He also knew that Bellatrix didn't care much for rules, as long as she got results.

But what caught Draco's attention was the blonde witch with paper-thin, pale skin, beads of sweat clinging to her brow, lipstick smeared across her chin, and thick glasses cracked and tilted on her thin nose.

"There he is!" Bellatrix threw her arms out wide, her hair flying as she did. Her gleeful smile was on full display, as she refused to wear a mask. "I have a treat for you."

He finished trudging through the liquid, stopping before the blonde witch: Rita Skeeter. Like the Mudblood upstairs, she wore a metal collar around her neck. "What's she doing here?"

"She claimed to have information about a Mudblood who's gone into hiding." Draco stilled. His fingers clenched his wand. "Based on her recent whereabouts, we suspect the Mudblood is in Bristol, but that's all I can get," Bellatrix said. Draco relaxed. He was safe. Theo and Blaise were safe. 

"If you couldn't get her to talk, what makes you think I can?" he asked, forcing his voice to stay even, relaxed. The mask covered the disgust on his face, but it did nothing to hide it in his tone.

Bellatrix smirked and walked in a circle around him. She wrapped an arm around his shoulders. "I haven't tried everything yet," she said. "A little birdie told me you're getting bored with the Registry." _Fucking Pansy._ This isn't what he'd had in mind _._ "Here's a chance to prove yourself to the Dark Lord." A chance to prove himself, so he could move up in the ranks of the Death Eaters. So he could have more power, more influence. He should be thrilled with the opportunity. Men his age weren't often given chances like this. 

"What's with the collar?" he asked, cocking his head.

"She's an Animagus," Bellatrix said. "Don't want her turning into a beetle and escaping our clutches!" She let out another laugh, then a sneer at Rita, and then walked away, kicking water at the unconscious bodies. "Have fun!"

Draco watched her ascend the staircase, her damp robes billowing behind her. When he was sure she was gone, he sank to a knee beside Rita. "Last chance to speak up. Who is the Mudblood? Where are they hiding? "

Rita recoiled, pressing her cheek against the rough stone wall. "I'll tell you... what I told her," she said through heavy breaths. Her voice was scratchy and hoarse. She must have had been screaming for hours. Bellatrix hadn't tried _everything,_ but she'd tried enough. "Revoke my Tithe... and I'll... tell you everything."

Draco leaned closer, narrowing his eyes. He kept the Registry, he knew her Tithe. Rita Skeeter was permitted to print whatever she liked in the Daily Prophet, granted she provide an interview under Veritaserum with one of the Death Eaters each month. Sure, it had exposed some of her more embarrassing and salacious endeavors— including a rather graphic account of how Headmaster Dippet had walked in on her losing her virginity in an empty classroom. Draco's mother had been utterly scandalized when she read the interview—but as far as Tithes went, she had it easy. Which made it easier for him to feel nothing less than indifference toward her. "You'll tell me regardless."

Rita squeezed her eyes shut. He withdrew his wand. Months had passed since he'd had to perform this spell. He rolled his neck, hoping muscle memory would carry him through it. _You have to mean it. Don't be a coward._ He thought of Theo. The scars crisscrossed up and down his arms, his back, his chest. He thought of Blaise, exiled from his own home. He thought of himself, permanently bowed under the weight of his own mistakes and a future he didn't want. " _Crucio."_

Rita's screams reverberated in the dark chamber. The young girl who was drinking the mysterious liquid on the ground clapped her hands around her ears. Skeeter fell onto her side. Her neck arched while her lower body convulsed, flinging drops of liquid onto Draco's trousers. "Give me a name. Now." The curse ceased, and her shoulders relaxed against the floor. When she wasn't moving, he could see the angry red lines etched into her neck from the collar. Surreptitiously, he glanced around the room. None of the other prisoners were wearing them. It was the one fragile shred of dignity that most blood traitors and sympathizers were afforded.

"Revoke- Revoke my Tithe," she repeated through gritted teeth.

Draco performed the curse without speaking it, just to see if he still could. Rita kept her lips clamped shut as long as she could, but her impulses had their way in the end. They always did. When the second rounds of her screams subsided, her chest heaved. She rolled onto her side and coughed, sending crimson splatters onto the wet ground. Tears leaked from the outer corners of her eyes; her mascara lined her eyes in a melting, watery ring. 

He lowered his voice to a whisper. "I can make this so much worse." She stayed silent. He raised his wand and cracked the joints in his neck.

"Okay! Okay!" Rita said. Her words were muffled as she choked on her own blood; her voice cracked and broken from the torture. She splayed her hands over her face, digging her cracked, brittle nails into her cheeks. "I lied! There's no Mudblood in Bristol!"

He scoffed and flicked his wand at her again. She clutched her knees to her chest and pressed her face into the ground. "Please!" she screamed, dragging her nails down her face, leaving jagged red lines in their path. "Please, there's no Mudblood!"

He knelt beside her and ran his tongue over his teeth. She kept her eyes clenched shut as he leaned over her. "You've published stories of wizards who have tried to leverage information for liberation. You should know it's never worked." The cruel, echoing chamber forced Draco to listen to his own idle malice again.

"Have you made any progress?" 

He looked up to see his father, donning a mask of his own, standing at the bottom of the stairs.

"She claims there's no Mudblood." He wiped his hands on his slacks as he stood.

Lucius strode towards them. The puddle that filled the room seemed to part for him, like the Red Sea. "Pity." Rita cowed under his harsh gaze. He cocked his head and withdrew a vial of amber liquid. Veritaserum. Used as a last resort, once Bellatrix grew tired of playing with her victims. Lucius gripped Rita's chin and forced the liquid down her throat. After she swallowed, he asked, "Is that true?"

She whimpered, tucking her chin to her chest. "There's no Mudblood. Please let me go."

"Very well." Lucius straightened. "You may finish her off," he said to his son, as if presenting him with a gift.

"Thank you, Father," said Draco, like the dutiful, obedient soldier he needed to be. He wasted no more time and no more energy. Rita Skeeter would die the way Mudbloods and blood-traitors did. Her body would bear the mark of her death and her treason.

Her bottom lip trembled. "Please," she said, strangled. "Please, don't."

Draco leaned forward. " _Mori quam foedari_ ," he sneered at her. _Death before dishonor._ She had brought this on herself. She knew the consequences of lying to the Dark Lord and his lieutenants.

Rita spat blood on his boots. With a snarl, Lucius kicked water toward her. She let out a bitter laugh, before resting her head on the floor, lying supine. In a final act of rebellion, she looked Lucius in the eyes. Before he could rebuke her and tell her to avert her gaze, she opened her mouth, and said in a shaky voice, " _Mors vincit omnia._ " _Death conquers all_.

 _Not all,_ Draco thought.

He tapped his wand to her collar. Her body vibrated. Her eyes rolled back in her head as saliva collected at her lips and spilled from her mouth. Blood leaked from the inner corners of her eyes. She let out one final, pitiful yelp before her body stilled. The collar cracked open.

Lucius nodded his approval. "Claim your token."

Draco's gut clenched. As if the scene before him wouldn't be seared into the back of his mind for the rest of his days; as if he wanted another useless keepsake, another useless, haunting memory. "She was not mine. I merely delivered the final blow. Bellatrix did all the work," he said, his tone laced with humility.

False humility, of course; merely smoke and mirrors, but his father could not accuse him of something he did not understand. 

His father offered an ambiguous grunt in reply and summoned the collar without speaking a word. He handed it to Draco. "Have the house-elves clean this and remove the body. Parkinson is in the library waiting for you."

He turned the metal over in his hands. He lifted a hand to his own neck. The circumference of the collar was so small; it would never fit him. "Draco," his father snapped.

It might have fit Hermione. 

Draco blinked. "Coming, Father." He didn't spare Skeeter another glance as he followed Lucius up the stairs, where a liveried Mudblood stood sentry at the top. "Have this cleaned," Draco commanded, pressing the cool metal against the Mudblood's chest. "Then remove the body from the dungeons."

The Mudblood gripped the collar with white knuckles and set off to the kitchens. Lucius did not so much as acknowledge Draco before returning to the ballroom. His waterlogged robes left a trail of puddles behind him. When he was sure he was alone in the hallway, Draco ripped off his Death Eater mask and rubbed his fists in his eyes. Only a few steps away, Pansy waited for him in the library. He debated whether he should rip the bandage off and allow her to elucidate him with the nature of this new mission, or steal a few more moments for himself, alone in the hallway. There was hope here, in the silence.

But the temptation of distraction won in the end. He couldn't feel his legs as they carried him to Pansy. She sat at her desk, chin propped in her hand as she reviewed the newest list of names in the Registry. She barely glanced up as he approached. "What did Skeeter say?"

"Nothing. She says she was lying." He pressed his knuckles into her desk.

Pansy leaned away from him. "You killed her, I presume?" she asked, but she had already drawn a thin, decisive red line over Rita's name. "It will be a pain to find someone to replace her at the _Prophet_."

He almost suggested that Pansy put herself up for the position. It would be easier for both of them if they didn't have to sit next to each other every day. "Do you mind if I take a look?" Draco asked, trying to seem casual.

She narrowed her eyes but handed the tome to him. "Need to double-check my work? Afraid I'm too simple to keep track of something so complicated as a list of names?"

He bit his tongue. He deserved that. This is what he deserved for insulting her intelligence and calling her too prideful in a desperate attempt to protect her and the rest of their friends. He threw in a few comments about her appearance, for good measure. If only she could remember that it had been her idea in the first place.

"Or," she continued, "is my ego just too big that I don't think I need to revise it?"

Draco scratched the side of his nose. Hermione Granger was not on the list. Yet. "Obviously not," he said slowly. "Seems as though you took my words to heart."

The tips of her ears went red. She snatched the Registry back and shelved it with a lazy wave of her hand. "We're to go to Azkaban tomorrow. Lord Voldemort wants us to bring back Peter Pettigrew." She slammed the book shut and shoved her chair back as she stood.

He wrinkled his nose. Peter Pettigrew had fled the night Voldemort had killed the Potters, but didn't make it far before Lucius caught him and put him in Azkaban, where he'd rotted for the last nineteen years. Draco had only seen him in passing during his visits to Azkaban over the years, but the man had always seemed like a sniveling waste of space. "Why?"

She shrugged. "I don't question Lord Voldemort." _To his face._ Beyond business, they might not have been on speaking terms, but he still knew her well enough to finish her sentences. "But based on your father's reaction, I assume it's to get a rise out of Lucius. I'll meet you at your place at six A.M."

"Fine," he dismissed her. Pondering Pettigrew's impending return, he ran the pad of his thumb over his lips. Pansy had nearly left the library by the time he processed her words. "No, wait!" he called after her. "I'll meet you at your place."

"Fine," she breathed, exasperated. "See you tomorrow."

Draco exhaled as she disappeared behind the door. One crisis avoided, or at least mitigated. He would have allowed himself to breathe easier, had there not been countless more calamities waiting for him at the apartment. 


	9. the poppy

Hermione couldn't remember the last time she had listened to music. At home, it was ubiquitous. Her mother always had the radio on when she was cooking or cleaning, her father sang loudly and off-key whenever they were in the car. Her parents had signed her up for piano lessons as soon as they could, and when she hadn't taken to the piano, they made her try to violin and the flute. She hadn't realized how much she missed it until she overheard Theo humming to himself in the kitchen.

 _At least one of them is in a good mood_ , Hermione thought.

Draco had returned from work earlier that afternoon and promptly locked himself in his bedroom. He emerged hours later to get himself a glass of water and to search the bookshelf in the sitting room for a particular notebook, all the while letting out a series of dramatic sighs and groans, muttering incoherent words like "fucking Blaise," "Registry," and "Azkaban" under his breath. Theo stopped humming. Hermione had been sitting on the couch with her legs tucked beneath her, trying to read a battered copy of _The Great Gatsby_. She kept her eyes glued to the page the entire time he was within eyesight, pretending like she wasn't interested. 

"What's wrong with him?" she asked Theo once Draco left the room.

Theo shrugged, barely looking up from his own book. "Something at work, probably."

"All those sighs— he sounded like he wanted you to ask about it."

Theo leaned back so he was balancing on the two hind legs of his chair. "He's an adult. If he wants to talk about it, he can initiate the conversation."

She thought he might be giving Draco too much credit. 

They fell into a comfortable silence. Theo sat at the kitchen table, which was filled with open textbooks and newspapers. With a well of red ink and a quill, he had been furiously scribbling notes and underlining passages like he was cramming for an exam. His hums never resumed; the only noise was the sound of his quill scratching against his parchment. Hermione had gathered that most pure-blood wizards didn't appreciate or understand Muggles, but did that mean they couldn't use Muggle inventions? What was the point of using a quill and ink when they could purchase a pack of twelve ballpoint pens for a pound?

 _The ostentation, in Draco's case_ , she supposed.

Hermione made it nearly halfway through her book before her reading was interrupted. Muffled voices sounded from the hallway and crescendoed until Hermione could clearly hear the words Blaise and Draco were exchanging. Before she could piece together their conversation, Theo pointed his want in their direction. " _Muffliato_." He bent his neck over his papers and continued working. Hermione couldn't tell if he had silenced them for his sake or hers.

"What the hell is wrong with him? He blames me for Astoria, he blames me for Pansy, but I didn't ask for any of this," said Blaise when he entered the kitchen a few minutes later. "If he had asked, I would have been the one to _Obliviate_ her. Especially since it's my... you know."

Though she could feel their eyes on her, Hermione kept her eyes down on the pages. _It's my fault,_ he was going to say. _She's my fault_.

"If he thought any of it was your fault, he wouldn't have volunteered," Theo said diplomatically. "Give him some time to cool off."

"He's had two days," Blaise grumbled, but returned to his bedroom, reticent.

The sun descended, flooding the apartment with late afternoon light, at which point Draco stormed out of the apartment. The walls shook when he slammed the door. Hermione assumed he was off to his mysterious job again, since that was the only obligation he seemed to have, but when she walked by the window, she saw him standing across the street, smoking a cigarette and kicking pebbles.

_Between that and the Butterbeer, he's going to rot his teeth._

It wasn't her problem, she reminded herself. She sat back down on the couch and picked up _The Great Gatsby_ again. She'd always hated the book, but it had been a while since she last read it. At least when she grew tired of reading about the shallow, pedantic characters, she could put the book down.

If only she could say the same for her shallow, pedantic flatmate.

By the time she finished the slim volume, her legs ached. Looking over her shoulder, she saw that Blaise had taken to helping Theo in the kitchen. Every time Hermione walked by the kitchen table, they covered the pages with their forearms and bent their heads low to keep her from looking over their shoulders. 

The air in the apartment suddenly felt stale. The walls closed in. The sound of their quills on the parchment echoed in her ears, sounding like claws on a chalkboard.

She cleared her throat. "I'm just going to poke my head out for a bit of fresh air."

Theo didn't bother to look up. "Don't leave the front step."

"Sure thing," she said, plucking Pansy's old jacket off the hook. She stuck her wand in the pocket and stepped into the street. The cool, crisp air whipped through her curls. She closed her eyes and inhaled, feeling her lungs fill, and then watched the clouds of her breath dissipate before her. She descended the stairs, brushed a few leaves from the concrete, and prepared to sit on the stoop when a flash of curly russet hair and a familiar navy peacoat caught her attention. She jumped to her feet, wrapping her fingers around the wrought iron railing, holding her breath.

One step, then another. Draco was no longer standing across the street. She looked behind her, through the window. From their vantage point, Theo and Blaise wouldn't be able to tell if she were on the steps or not. She buried her hands in her pockets and jogged down the steps, taking a sharp right. It was unlikely, but not impossible. One turn around the block, just to be sure, and the boys would be none the wiser.

She bowed her head against the harsh wind, wishing she'd had a hat to cover her ears. It was too late to ask Pansy now. _Maybe when she and Draco made up,_ she thought, but immediately pushed the thought from her mind. Pansy and Draco would only reunite under one of two circumstances: if Hermione was gone, whatever that meant, or if Voldemort was removed from power. 

Either way, Hermione wouldn't be around to see it.

At the thought of Voldemort, Hermione lifted her head and cast a paranoid glance up and down the street to ensure no one was following her. It wasn't an immediate concern. Draco had said that Voldemort didn't know about her, and unless any Death Eaters were suspicious of Theo, Blaise, or Draco, there was no reason for them to hang around Camden, waiting for Muggle-borns to exit their apartment.

A dark speck caught her attention in the sky ahead of her. Shielding her eyes with a hand, she watched a large bird descend above her and land at Draco's apartment. An owl? No, the sun hadn't set yet. She straightened the collar on her jacket and faced forward with fresh determination; there was no time to lose. She took another step toward the corner when a hand snaked around her elbow and stopped her in her place.

Her fingers curled around her wand in her pocket. Simultaneously, she whipped it out and ripped her arm away, already feeling heat rise to her head. Her vision was tinged with red and her chest heaved with anticipation. She rocked back on her heels, anchoring herself to the ground, preparing for a fight.

"What are you doing?" the voice hissed. Her eyes focused. She blinked. Draco. He closed the distance between them and snatched her wand out of her hand. "Give me that." He stuck it up his sleeve. She made to reach for it, but Draco clamped a hand around her wrist. "Stop," he ordered. She relaxed her fingers and pulled her hand out of his grip, but didn't recoil when he placed a hand on the small of her back, directing her back to the apartment. "Don't you have any sense of self-preservation?" he asked in a low tone, eyes darting around the street. It was empty, except for the two of them. 

"I thought I saw..." she trailed off and shook her head. It was ridiculous, of course. Her mother would be at work in The City until seven o'clock, not wandering around Camden. " _You_ grabbed _me,"_ she defended.

Draco removed his hand from her jacket. "Because you're wandering the streets of London on your own when you clearly can't be trusted to take care of yourself."

"It would have been fine-"

"Because you had your wand? Which you pulled out at the first sight of trouble?" He paused at the bottom of the steps. Hermione's eyes bulged at the eagle owl waiting on the railing, a small roll of parchment tied to its scaly leg. She stilled, not wanting to scare it, but Draco reached out and patted its head, as if it were a domesticated pet. "You're too skittish. You would have exposed yourself, not to mention the rest of us."

Another cloud formed at her lips. "Well, you can't expect me to wait around inside the apartment every day for the rest of my life."

"That's exactly what I expect you to do," he said, glowering. The dusty light from the setting sun hit the highest planes of his face— his cheekbones, his nose. His silver eyes shone against his skin. For the first time, his visage had a bit of color.

"I only wanted a walk around the block. I know it could have been dangerous, but-"

"No, you don't. You have no idea. In there—" he jabbed a finger toward the apartment— "you have clothes, food, a bed, a private place to shower and piss. Out here, you have nothing."

Hermione couldn't respond. Draco looked away. Casually, he untied the piece of paper from the owl's leg and allowed the owl to nip at his hand before handing it a treat. As the owl swallowed the treat whole and flew away, Draco gestured for Hermione to enter the apartment first. She watched the owl fly until it was only a dot against the darkening sky. Impatient, he took her by the shoulders and gave her a gentle push toward the front door.

With a sigh of resignation, she shoved the door open. Her cheeks were warm, but she hoped that everyone would think the rosy flush was due to the winter chill.

"We need some ground rules," Draco announced to the room before he had even hung up his coat.

Hermione was growing tired of the sound of his voice. "Number one," she muttered, returning to stand behind the couch like it was a shield. "Stop acting like a prick."

Blaise choked out a short laugh, which quickly turned into a cough when Draco shot him a glare.

"You can't leave the apartment unless Blaise is with you."

Hermione's eyes narrowed to slits. "Only Blaise?" The line between refugee and hostage was dangerously blurred.

"Yes," Draco said. Blaise nodded his reluctant assent. 

Hermione glanced between the three of them. Theo's nose remained in the book he was annotating. "Why-" she began, though she already knew the answer. Blaise was the one who had opened their doors to her; Blaise would be the one responsible for her. 

"If you do leave, you cannot take your wand," Draco interrupted her. She opened her mouth to protest, but cut herself off. She could play dumb if she didn't have a wand. If she was caught with one, Death Eaters would want to know where she got it, and she didn't think they'd have any trouble tracing it back to Draco.

When it became clear she had no objections, Draco continued. "In public, you pretend you're a Muggle. If a Death Eaters catches you in public, you _run._ You do not try to fight. If anyone else Apparates here, you act your ass off. Pretend you've never seen anyone do magic before. You met one of us at a pub and hit it off, but you don't even know our last names. Magic lessons," he addressed Theo now, "take place when all three of us are home, in one of the bedrooms. Otherwise, your wand is out of sight. Got it?" His steely eyes burned into hers. He didn't wait for her acknowledgment. "If they catch you-"

Blaise stood. "We don't need to talk about this," he said.

"What if it had been Crabbe or Goyle, instead of Pansy?" Draco asked. "They'd be off to tell Voldemort as soon as they realized what was happening."

Blaise sank back into his char, and Hermione became Draco's object of study once again. "If they catch you-"

"I won't give you away, if that's what you're worried about. I won't tell them that you helped me."

"You won't have a choice. I only ask that you hold off as long as you can. Try to give us a few hours to get out of the country. Lie, contradict yourself, pretend you've gone insane, do whatever you have to do." Hermione blinked as she felt her face drain of color. A few hours of torture in exchange for all their help. After that, there was no telling what the Death Eaters would do to her. "Got it?" His tone sharpened.

"Fine." She forced herself to look into his eyes. "My turn to make some rules." The curve of Draco's frown sharpened, but he didn't object, so she continued. "I don't need to justify my existence to you. I don't need to prove to you that I'm worthy of survival." He didn't remove his gaze from her. She might have been imagining it, but it seemed that his features gradually softened the longer he looked at her. "I'm not trying to get myself killed or captured; like it or not, our fates seem to be intertwined, so you have to trust me."

He took a step forward and withdrew her wand. "We're trusting you as much as you're trusting us," he reminded her.

She blew a stray curl out of her face and took the old, worn wand from him. "Does that mean you'll give me a few more answers?"

Draco tucked his chin to his chest. Blaise and Theo shuffled their papers around and stacked the textbooks, evidently done for the evening. "What do you want to know?" Theo asked.

 _Everything_. The first question that came to mind was _You have trained owls?_ but that was almost certainly not the most pressing issue. Instead, she asked, "Why does Voldemort hate Muggle-borns so much?"

Draco shook his head and crossed his arms. "You're asking the wrong questions."

Her shoulders slumped and her chest caved in. "I'm trying to understand-"

"You're not," he insisted. "You're searching for information that will prove your theories right and fit into the stereotypical oppressive regime you've made this world out to be in your head." Confirmation bias. Of course. "If you only ask for the information that makes you out as the victim, you'll go mad with paranoia."

She blinked and leaned back. Draco hadn't exactly been helping on that front, given he'd just suggested she might have to succumb to torture in order to save the rest of them. "So what am I missing?" It was a question that weighed more than Hermione and Draco put together, but they had to start somewhere.

Draco ran a hand through his white-blond hair and perched himself on the armchair opposite her. "We get compensated for our Tithes," he offered. She wouldn't have thought to ask that question on her own. "It's one of the reasons there hasn't been a successful uprising. Voldemort puts us through hell, but he makes it worth our while."

Hermione thought of Pansy. She couldn't fathom what kind of reward would make her willingly give up her memories for the purpose of spying on her friends. Then again, maybe she could if her parents had been involved. If she were that desperate for food or water or shelter or a job. Obedience, in some cases, might be better than sacrifice.

She scanned the faces before her. Theo and Blaise both stared at her, eyes wide, probably thinking of their own compensations. Draco's head was lowered, staring at his knees. She wondered what Draco had sacrificed for this very apartment.

Then she wondered how horribly Voldemort would punish him if he found out his gift was being used to safeguard a Mudblood.

She coughed, running through years of world history lessons in her mind. "In a just society, there would be no need for Tithes or compensation. I mean, look at the French Revolution." Her heart began to beat rapidly in her chest. They might have known more about magic, but she'd had years of world history lessons. Governments were upended. Societies changed. Empires fell. Voldemort may be immortal, but he couldn't cling to power forever.

"We're not the bourgeoisie," Draco said. "He's created a unique hell for each of us; for most, it's a matter of life and death." Hermione wished she hadn't seen Theo flinch out of the corner of her eye. "He's made it nearly impossible for any kind of unity between us."

Hermione rested her chin in her hands. She assumed Pansy wasn't the only one who provided memories and information for Voldemort, which meant that circles for potential rebellions were kept small, out of necessity. It made her head hurt, thinking about the elaborate web of pain and suffering that Voldemort had weaved. If she weren't so terrified, she'd almost be impressed.

"The Order of the Phoenix is an exception, I presume."

"More or less. The problem is they're wildly ineffective at enacting any kind of change. Their members die quicker than they can be replaced," Draco said.

"I'd bet they'll be obsolete by the end of next year," Blaise chimed in.

"I give them six months," said Theo.

"They need numbers," Draco explained. "But right now, joining them is nothing less than a death sentence. It's safer to just keep your head down and deal with the present consequences."

Hermione sank into the pillows, her mind racing, her hope torn to pieces. Participating in a war was the last thing she wanted, the last thing she was prepared for. But surely, someone somewhere must be planning _something._

Leaving Hermione to her own devices, Draco turned to Theo. "This came for you," he said. 

Hermione glanced over the back of the couch to see Draco handing Theo the small roll of parchment.

Theo blanched. "Is it...?"

Draco nodded, his jaw locked, eyes hardened. "I tried, mate. I told him you weren't up for it." He ran a hand around his chin and swiped his thumb across his lips. "If we weren't already breaking about a thousand other laws in the Ordinance, I would say ignore it, but-"

"I wouldn't, even if we weren't," Theo said, folding the paper up and tucking it in his pocket.

Blaise, who had been silent throughout this interaction, caught Hermione's eye. Her eyes widened, and she spun around to face forward, picking at her cuticles. After being caught, she wasn't sure whether she should stand up and leave.

"I'm sorry," Draco said, his voice small.

Theo fell silent for a moment. His chair scraped against the wooden floor. Hermione heard a soft pat like Theo was clapping Draco on the shoulder. "You can't take the blame for everything."

Hermione chanced another look at the three of them and for the first time, saw Draco as he was: a twenty-year-old boy trying to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, and punishing himself when it became too heavy to bear. She blinked and turned back, staring at her torn-up fingernails. The echo of footsteps faded into the hallway, punctuated by the soft sound of a door closing. Blaise cleared his throat, and Hermione turned around. Both Draco and Theo had disappeared. She'd only heard one pair of footsteps.

"I was going to run to the store," Blaise said. "Would you care to join me?"

The corner of her lip quirked as she nodded eagerly. She set her wand down beside a line of Draco's notebooks and shrugged back into Pansy's jacket, before following Blaise out into the cool night air. The sun had nearly set, casting a soft orange glow across the clouds that hung low in the sky. Blaise led the way away from the apartment with long strides. Hermione had to walk twice as quickly as she normally did to keep up with him, but stretching her legs was worth it.

An owl hooted from above them. Hermione looked up, expecting to see another one flying toward the apartment with a letter in its beak or tied to its leg, but it was only a common barn owl, perched on the roof of a nearby building. 

She thought of Draco's eagle owl, who could fly anywhere in the world, yet remained loyal to him. There was a difference, Hermione realized, between duty and bondage. For some, obedience was better than sacrifice, but for Hermione, freedom superseded all else. No matter how long she had to lie in wait, Hermione would break free.

For now, she would settle for survival. For now, the slow, steady beat of her heart and the insurgent expanse of her lungs in the open air would have to be enough. Her hope might have been torn, but she was willing to glue the shards back together.


	10. the larkspur

The walls of Azkaban were upheld by the bones of its prisoners. Or so Draco had been told.

He and Pansy entered through the catacombs to avoid the dementors that guarded the island. She led the way, holding out her lit wand to guide them through the blackness. A soft rumble echoed in the tunnels. It must have been the sound of the waves against the rocks above them. Or maybe it was the bones whispering to them. Warning them.

"Watch out," Pansy said over her shoulder. _Too late._ Draco nearly tripped over a rock on the ground and proceeded the slide across the slick surface. He cursed as he regained his balance. Upon further examination, he saw it wasn't a rock at all, but a fully intact dragon head. How many creatures were laid to rest down here? He placed a hand on the wall to steady himself but immediately retracted it when something slimy coated his palm. 

_It's only the water seeping through the cracks in the foundation,_ Draco told himself. He wiped his sticky hands on his cloak. He knew he should have worn gloves. 

"Are you sure you know where you're going?" Draco called as she led him through the labyrinth.

"Don't yell. It's disrespectful."

"The dead can't hear us," he grumbled. His mother would have said the same thing as Pansy: _It's irreverent._

His father wouldn't have minded. _If the dead wanted their memory's honored, they shouldn't have broken the law and landed themselves in Azkaban in the first place_. Draco suspected that Pansy was only looking for an excuse to snap at him. "I'm just saying, this wouldn't be the first time you've gotten us lost down here."

"I was ten years old," she muttered. "And at least _I_ didn't cry."

He bristled at the memory. Whose idea had it been to allow a pair of prepubescents to play in the catacombs in the first place? 

When they emerged from the tunnels, a rush of cool ocean breeze hit their faces. Pansy nearly lost her balance as she ducked her head to take cover in the nearest archway. He took his time catching up with her, scanning the sky for any signs of dementors.

Pansy shivered. Draco reached to unfasten and offer his cloak but soon thought better of it. She couldn't think he cared. He couldn't give her any reason to even think they were friends, so they submerged themselves in the silence and began the treacherous climb to the top floor of the prison. By the time they reached the sixth floor, Draco's lungs felt as though they might collapse in his chest. Pansy, it seemed, hadn't broken a sweat. 

Clearly, it was past time for him to start exercising again, especially if Voldemort was planning on giving him more assignments. 

Under the guise of looking at the view, Draco pulled himself into an empty window frame, swung his legs over the side, and caught his breath. The stone walls protected him from the worst of the violent wind, though he kept an arm around the nearest column, just in case. 

Eighty feet in the air, he could see the jagged, snow-capped cliffs of the next nearest island, several miles away. He chanced a look down. A wave of vertigo washed over him, in time with the wave crashing against the side of the building. Swallowing mouthfuls of the briny sea air, he looked up and out at the endless expanse of sea. It was slow and steady work that the tides performed. Every day, eroding the stone walls of the island little by little. The prison was built to be impenetrable, but that didn't equate to permanence. Azkaban had been established over 500 years ago; the island had been here long before that, and it still loomed in the North Sea, but one day, it would have no choice but to crumble, forced into submission by the sea and the wind.

"Get away from the ledge," Pansy warned him.

Draco pulled his attention back to her with a smirk. She stood against the back wall, one arm crossed over her chest, gripping the opposite shoulder. "Worried about me?" he teased.

The tick in her jaw told him all he needed to know. It pleased him, but it shouldn't have. Bracing his hands on the crumbling stone frame of the window, he took one last look at the vastness before him, before jumping down from the edge of the world. He brushed the frost from his hands and walked past her, bumping his shoulder against hers as he did. Her shoulders tensed and she lengthened her strides.

She led him up another stairway. "There's no need for both of us to do a simple collection job," Pansy said, dragging the tips of her fingers across the stone wall as she climbed. "You can leave. I'll handle it."

"And let Voldemort think I'm neglecting my duty?" He flinched as soon as he heard the words leave his lips. He'd laced too much sarcasm into them; if Voldemort looked into Pansy's mind to make sure they'd done their job, he'd take note, and he wouldn't be pleased. "I'm already here. Let's just finish it."

She nodded absent-mindedly. For good measure, Draco added, "Besides, I don't know if you can handle it on your own." Pansy's pale face was already flushed from the cold, but the tips of her ears reddened even more from his insult. _Good_.

Truthfully, Pansy was just as capable as the rest of them. She had trained with Draco and Blaise when they were younger, and she was at the top of their class at Hogwarts, second only to Draco, who admittedly probably received special treatment because of his surname. She'd bested men larger than Draco in hand-to-hand combat and had always been a fair dueller.

That didn't mean he didn't worry about her.

"Can I ask you something?" she asked.

He inhaled, wishing she would grant him the small mercy of silence. "Enough with the questions. You sound just like-" He cut himself off. _Fuck._ He coughed and dropped to a knee, pretending to lace up his boots, ridding his head of any thoughts of the curly-haired nuisance; the wretched, timid girl with the impossibly toxic relationship with fear.

Pansy paused but didn't turn around. "Who?" she asked the wall.

"Doesn't matter." He stood and brushed past her, leading them around a corner and up a spiral staircase. Taking the steps two at a time, he asked, "We're on an assignment. Can it wait?"

She had to jog to keep with his long strides. "Have you talked to Snape or Slughorn about-"

Draco cleared his throat, silencing Pansy, as he nodded to a passing guard: a boy, a few years younger than them. Was patrolling Azkaban a new graduation requirement at Hogwarts? Draco had asked for a position as a guard when he first graduated, but Voldemort had insisted it was a waste of his talents. Considering he'd then been exiled to monotonous, mindless work on the Registry, he still hadn't quite worked out what _talents_ Voldemort referred to. 

When Draco was sure the guard was out of earshot, he answered her unfinished question. "They wouldn't help. And even if they would, Theo's asked me not to."

"Since when you do you care what Theo wants?"

He glared at her. "You shouldn't be asking me about this." It probably didn't matter. Over the past few years, Pansy had grown quite adept at reconstructing conversations to save herself. She might have hated him at the moment, but this discussion incriminated her as much as him. She wouldn't risk it.

"He's dying," she insisted.

He cast a glance up and down the empty hallway, but lowered his voice anyway, in case there were any rats in the walls. "Lord Voldemort said-"

"Don't even start on that bullshit. Voldemort's the one _killing_ him."

"He's not." She blinked at him. He sighed. "Maybe he is, but he _swore-_ "

Pansy scoffed. "You sound just like your father."

"My father is a respected and honored member of the Dark Lord's Regiment." He closed the distance between them so their knees and hips brushed against each other. Draco wished he were an inch or two taller, so he could look down on her, but with the heels on her combat boots, the top of her head nearly reached his eye-line.

Her dark eyes blazed into his, unfeeling and indifferent. He narrowed his eyes to slits. She tilted her head, daring him to say something—anything— else. When he didn't, she took a step back with a casual shrug before continuing down the hallway, to the final block of cells.

Draco watched her retreat with her arms folded behind her back, bouncing on the tips of her toes with a new lightness. His breath escaped him. "You were goading me," he accused her. "Did Voldemort put you up to this?"

She lifted her chin, a saccharine smirk gracing her lips.

"I hope I passed your test," he bit out. Voldemort must have sensed the rift between them, or else he'd invaded her memories and seen their fight. Draco allowed himself to feel a modicum of hope that it was the latter. Given that Draco, Theo, Blaise, and Hermione were all still breathing, the _Obliviate_ must have fooled Voldemort. They were safe for now.

"I suppose we'll have to wait and see. Maybe you'll get a promotion. You can join the Regiment like your _father._ "

The possibility took hold of Draco's heart like an icy fist. He lengthened his stride, hoping the physical exertion would warm him. "If it pleases the Dark Lord," he said, keeping his voice flat, unyielding. He couldn't ask the one question he so desperately needed to be answered: _Have I done anything to provoke Voldemort's suspicions?_

They turned a corner to find a long line of occupied cells. 17 to be exact: Azkaban's final prisoners. After the Ordinance, the need for a prison dwindled. Mudbloods and blood-traitors were enslaved. The most dangerous traitors were killed. The island now served as a holding place for people like Peter Pettigrew, people that Voldemort had no immediate need for, but wanted to keep close, just in case. Draco couldn't fathom what use Pettigrew would serve now.

Between the catacombs and the human remains in the cells on the lower floors, Azkaban was less a prison and more so a graveyard.

17 cells for 17 prisoners. 16 men and one woman: Andromeda Tonks, kept alive only as a favor to Draco's mother and aunt, but looking at her now, Draco assumed she probably would have preferred death. Mud streaked her gray face and her clothes hung from her like a tapestry on a wall. She was all hard angles and flat planes, without any of the soft edges and motherly curves Draco remembered from childhood. All of the prisoners donned identical haircuts, a buzzed head to prevent the spread of lice, though all of their hair had grown shaggy. It must have been weeks since someone last made the trek up to groom them.

There, at the end of the corridor, sat Peter Pettigrew, barefoot and trembling in the cold. Like Rita Skeeter, he had a silver collar clamped around his neck to keep him from transforming.

And at that moment, Draco realized that Azkaban was more than a graveyard. This was Purgatory. This was limbo. The lucky ones died early and quickly, while the rest suffered indefinite damnation at the hands of Voldemort: their judge, jury, and executioner. He was molding Draco into his scythe: a weapon to be wielded with no will of his own. And he was too far gone to back out now.

When Voldemort inevitably discovered Hermione, Draco knew there was no paradise, no hope, no heaven waiting for him. He could only pray that his death would be swift and easy.

"Get up," Pansy ordered Pettigrew. "Your time's up."

Pettigrew curled further into his corner, placing both palms flat on the wall. "No," he whispered. "No."

Draco placed the tip of his wand to the lock on the cell door, while Pansy conjured a leash to attach to Pettigrew's collar. Draco looked away as she approached him. The collars, he'd been desensitized to. The leashes were another story.

 _It's just Pettigrew_ , he reminded himself. Pettigrew ran away. He would have willingly Voldemort, knowing the consequences. Draco couldn't allow himself to feel any sympathy for the guilty. But he also couldn't stop the flood of images of the innocent. The collateral damages. The Mudbloods that served in the Manor. Hermione Granger.

Pettigrew's weak protests fell on deaf ears. Pansy hauled him to his feet. About half of the remaining prisoners looked on with pity, the other half with envy.

"What does he want with me?" Pettigrew asked, his eyes growing wide and watery.

Draco took him by the elbow. "Your guess is as good as mine. Can you walk?"

Pettigrew's eyes bounced between the two of them. "I-" He hesitated, recognition and fear flashing his face as he took in Draco's appearance. There were times when the resemblance between him and his father served him well.

Peter snarled, and with unexpected agility, charged Draco, swiping him across the face with his untrimmed nails.

Pansy jabbed her wand into Pettigrew's side. In one swift motion, she unsheathed the knife at her side and pressed it to his throat, slamming him against the back wall. He flinched. Nineteen years in Azkaban had not been kind to him. His cheekbones were sharp and hollow, the concave curve of his collarbone looked deep and fragile.

Draco lifted his hand to his cheek. Pettigrew's fingernails were sharp enough to draw blood. "You're lucky Voldemort wants you alive." He spoke without malice, without contempt. It was a fact, not a threat.

"Can you walk?" Pansy repeated. "We have to make it down eight floors before we can Apparate out of here."

"Yes," he said, the words wavering.

She jerked her chin in Draco's direction. "Lead the way."

Pansy kept a tight grip on Peter's leash while Draco guided them back to the ground floor, back to the entrance of the catacombs, outside the Apparition wards. Pettigrew tripped over his feet no fewer than four times on their descent, nearly falling over on the final staircase, but they made it in one piece. At the base of the prison, Pansy and Draco each wrapped an arm around Peter's and pulled him back to the Manor, where a semi-circle of Death Eaters was waiting. 

"Well done!" Bellatrix clapped her hands and leaned her face mere millimeters from Pettigrew. Draco recoiled from the scent of her rancid breath.

"I'll take him," Lucius said. Draco shifted Pettigrew's weight from his shoulder to his father's, while a masked Death Eater relieved Pansy. He couldn't look his father in the eye. These days, it felt far too much like looking in a mirror.

With a grunt, Draco brushed his hands on his slacks, cringing at the streaks of dust left behind. He looked up to see his mother, wobbly on her high heels as she walked toward him. "Draco-"

"Mother, is it okay if I finish up some work in the library and then I'll come back and meet you for tea?" He pressed the back of his hand to his cheek. His fingers came back stained with blood.

Narcissa pressed her lips into a thin line, accentuating the shallow wrinkles that had formed around her mouth. "Draco, you should go back to your apartment."

He placed a hand on her shoulder and looked back at his father, who was dragging Pettigrew toward the cellar. "I still have some work to do-"

"Draco," his mother repeated, before saying the two words he hoped he'd never have to hear. "It's Theo."

He looked at Pansy, who had gone white as a sheet. "No," he stated, reading her mind as she pulled out her wand.

"You can't stop me," she snarled. 

"Do not come over," he said, balling his fists. Pansy squared her shoulders and lifted her chest.

Draco let his eyebrows relax and his lips soften. He couldn't threaten her into staying away. He lowered his voice and leaned in closer, so his mother wouldn't hear them. "Whatever happened, he wouldn't want you to see him like this. I'll let you know when he's ready for visitors."

"Malfoy, I swear to-"

"Please." He reached out to pull at the hem of her sweater. She took a step back, ripping the garment from his grasp. "Pansy, I promise I'll call you when he's ready." He nodded to his mother. "Please, keep her here."

Narcissa was quick to snatch Pansy's wand out of her hand. Pansy gasped and flailed to reach for it. "Malfoy!" she yelled. "Malfoy, I'm going to-"

Draco Disapparated before he could hear the end of her threat. He arrived in the middle of his kitchen to find Theo laying flat on his back in the middle of the floor. Hermione knelt over him, her hands trembling. She looked up at him and let out a wavering breath of relief. "I don't-" Her voice shook, her eyes flooded with tears.

Draco dropped to his knees beside her. Her crimson-stained hands held a blood-soaked cloth to his chest. He took her by the wrist and wrenched the cloth away from him, revealing a matrix of fresh scars. Hermione sucked in a deep breath. "I couldn't find a first-aid kit," she said apologetically. 

_We have magic_ , Draco thought, irritated by her very presence. _We have no need for a first-aid kit._

But if he hadn't come in time... 

_No what-ifs,_ he scolded himself. "Theo, can you hear me?"

Theo let out a weak cough. "Draco."

"Hang on," Draco said, his voice cracking and scratching like a broken record. "Hold on, Theo. You're going to be okay." He held his wand with trembling fingers.

"Wait," Theo said. He placed a hand on his chest, blocking Draco's access. "Let Hermione try."

Draco nearly dropped his wand. "No." He took Theo by the wrist and moved his hand.

He managed a pitiful smile, full of hope and optimism and myriad other things Draco didn't have time for. "Please."

"No, you're insane. She can barely unlock a door." He lifted his wand again. "Stop arguing with me before I let you bleed out."

Theo looked toward Hermione, pleading. She shook her head and lifted her blood-stained hands to her mouth. Her eyes widened when she realized she'd smeared Theo's blood on her lips, and she wiped her fingers on her bare legs. "Theo, please," she said. "I really don't-"

"She's-" He coughed. "You're never going to learn if you- if you don't... if you don't try."

Draco ignored Theo and placed a hand on his shoulder. Theo brushed his hand away. Draco relented, smothering a snarl. He swore under his breath and turned to Hermione. "If you fuck this up, I will cut off both your hands."

Hermione paled, but raised her wand with a shaky hand. Draco traced his own wand along the seam of Theo's open wounds. " _Vulnera sanentur,_ " he demonstrated, over-enunciating each syllable. The skin folded together and the bleeding stopped. "Go."

Hermione nodded, took a deep breath. At the sound of Theo's soft groan, her wrist stilled. " _Vulnera san-san._ " She shook her head. Draco pursed his lips, biting back an insult, a scream, an expletive.

" _Vulnera sanentur,_ " he repeated through gritted teeth as he rubbed the back of his neck.

"Right. Right," she breathed. " _Vulnera sanentur_." She pressed her wand to the largest gash: a vertical cut right down the center of his stomach. Theo hissed, but the wound began to close. Hermione swallowed.

"This one next." Draco pointed a jagged line on his left pectoral, right above his heart. Voldemort's favorite. He never allowed the scar to fully form before he slashed it open again.

Hermione turned her wand over in her hand and held it above the scar Draco indicated. She repeated the incantation. Nothing. "Why isn't it working?" She blinked back tears. The high pitch of her voice only heightened his agitation.

"Try again." He ran his knuckles under his jaw.

Nothing.

Fuck. "Move," he said, nudging his shoulder against hers.

"No," Theo insisted. "Please, let her try."

"She tried," Draco said. "She _can't._ Let me heal you."

"Theo, I'm sorry. Please, let Draco do it." Tears streamed down her face. Her shoulders shook as she struggled not to show her panic, but her wide eyes gave her away. The muscles in Draco's neck contracted as he down looked at Theo. Blood had pooled in the divets of his abdomen and hips flowing to the ground on either side of him. 

Theo rapped his knuckles against the wooden floor to keep himself awake. Draco looked at Voldemort's favorite scar, and sighed out of rueful relief as he realized exactly why Theo had insisted on _Hermione_ saving him.

She cupped her wand with both hands, surrendering it. "Draco, I can't do it. You know I can't."

He rocked back on his heels and pounded his fists into his knees. He would give her one more chance. "You already did it. Go."

"Draco, he's bleeding out!" The rapid rise and fall of her chest outpaced his heartbeat. She leaned away.

Draco gripped her wrist with more force than was probably necessary and pulled her back to Theo's side. His long fingers covered hers as he corrected her grip. "Say it again."

She obeyed. He could feel the magic in her pulse, the electricity flowing through her wand as if it were his own powers. He repressed a gasp and involuntarily loosened his grip on her hand. The wound closed.

"Good," Draco exhaled and released the tension in his shoulders. "This one." He guided her hand to another gash. He tightened his hand around hers, preparing himself for the rush of power. Sure enough, as she spoke the spell, he felt her magic under his fingers, like water escaping from a cracked vessel. He pulled his hand away.

"Finish up here," he said softly. "I'm going to find some Blood-Replenishing Potions." He didn't wait around long enough to hear her protests. Once he was safely behind his closed bedroom door, he clasped his hands and lifted them to his doorknob. _Alohamora_ , he thought, and focused on the rushing of his blood, the power in his veins. The lock clicked.

He paused and lifted his wand, balancing it deftly between his right fingers before placing his left hand over it. _Colloportus_. His right hand—his wand hand—warmed, hummed with an electric impulse. His left hand felt nothing. So why had he felt Hermione's magic?

He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against his door. This girl had already caused him ceaseless headaches.

At the sound of another moan in the kitchen, Draco's eyes snapped open. He grabbed the vial of Blood-Replenisher from his desk and threw the door back open. On the floor, Hermione had almost finished closing up all of his wounds. Theo was rambling incoherently about a book he'd recently read, while she asked him questions, only half-listening, still trying to keep him awake. Draco knelt by Theo's head, cradled his neck, and poured the contents of the vial down his throat. With one final cough, Theo swallowed.

"Thanks," he said, struggling to his elbows.

Hermione scrambled to her feet as Draco heaved Theo up, slinging an arm beneath his shoulders. Hermione took the other side and they helped him to the couch.

"Thank you," he said again.

Draco shook his head. "Don't thank me, I beg of you."

Hermione shuffled her feet against the carpet and rubbed her fingers together. "Um," she hesitated and tucked a curl behind her ear. It immediately fell back in front of her face. "Can I get you anything?"

Theo shook his head and offered her a smile. Draco wished he would stop with the damn smiling. "I'm just going to sleep for a while."

Hermione nodded and made a beeline for the kitchen sink.

Draco was silent, staring at his boots. Blood crusted on the toes. He didn't know if it was Theo's, or if was from Azkaban. "Theo, I'm so-"

"You always take care of me," Theo interrupted him, rubbing a hand over the tender flesh of his bare chest. "That's more than I could have ever hoped for."

Draco laughed, bitterly, humorlessly. He tossed a blanket at Theo's head. "Get some sleep. Let me know if you need anything." He snatched a notebook from the shelf and planted himself at the kitchen table. Hermione was still scrubbing at the blood on her hands.

Pansy had asked him if he thought about turning elsewhere for a solution. It was against the Ordinance, the find a loophole around Tithes and compensation. A crime punishable by death. To Draco, it was a catch-22: Theo was equally likely to die either way. He'd abstained because Theo had always asked him not to. But that was before Blaise violated the Statute of Secrecy on Primrose Hill. That was before Theo convinced them to keep Hermione. That was before Draco started smuggling books on the burn list.

Pansy was right: since when did Draco listen to Theo? They were already breaking a thousand other laws. _What was one more?_


	11. the foxglove

"Your cheek is bleeding," Hermione said, walking around the kitchen island with a new bounce in her step. 

_You're cheerful for someone who almost witnessed death_ , Draco thought. He lifted his hand to his face. He'd almost forgotten that Pettigrew had tried to attack him. "Right."

"I'm excellent at healing spells," she said with a cheeky grin, twirling her wand. "I can fix it, if you want."

One corner of his mouth twitched, but his face felt too stiff to produce a smile. Or maybe that was wishful thinking. Conspicuously, he glanced around the kitchen for a bottle of alcohol—anything would have done the trick, even Theo's cheap, repulsive vodka. "No, it'll go straight to your head. I'll be fine."

She shrugged and took another lap around the kitchen with her shoulders pulled back. A pensive expression shadowed her face. Out of the corner of his eye, Draco caught her mouthing words to herself, piecing together bits of a puzzle. Draco sighed and pushed his chair back, twisting to face her. "Out with it. What's your question?"

She planted her elbows on the counter and rested her chin on her fists. "Voldemort did that to Theo, right?" Hermione asked. All evidence of her pride at healing him had drained from her face. "Blaise told me that he sometimes requires blood as a Tithe."

Draco gripped the edge of the table and listened for the telltale sound of Theo's snores before answering. "Yes."

Her face wrenched into an expression of disgust. She opened her palms and spread her fingers so her hands covered her mouth. "That's... barbaric."

Draco shook his head. _Barbaric_ didn't begin to cover it. Theo's Tithe was cruel and sadistic and inhumane. 

But it would be worth it. 

Hermione stood and moved to leave with a hand splayed over her stomach. Draco wasn't sure what possessed him to offer any more information than was absolutely necessary to their collective survival, but Theo certainly wasn't going to swallow his pride to let her know. He stood, and spoke. "Theo's sick. He has a blood malediction." Hermione stopped in her tracks, raising an inquisitive eyebrow. "It's like magical cancer," he explained. "A few hundred years ago, someone put a curse on his family, and every few generations, it manifests. Slowly weakens the victim until their blood stops flowing, and they die."

Her cheeks were tinged with green when she returned to her spot at the counter. Draco watched the visible rise and fall of her shoulders as she collected her thoughts. "That's a sick joke, requiring a blood sacrifice from someone with a blood disease."

Draco inclined his head. "Yes. But to Voldemort, it's a fair trade." He shifted his weight. "It's going to kill him anyway, but Voldemort claims to know of a cure, and in return for all of Theo's blood sacrifice, he'll give us—him— the cure when it's time."

Hermione bit her lip. "But what purpose does it serve? What does he need the blood for?"

Draco shrugged. "Hell if I know. Maybe he needs it to maintain his vitality, for his immortality." Theo made a noise. Draco paused and waited for another snore before continuing. "It's a way for Theo to prove his loyalty. Theo's willing to obey Voldemort at any cost, and that makes him a worthy candidate for the cure."

She straightened, looking over at Theo's sleeping figure. He looked so vulnerable, so pale, wrapped in the cable knit blanket. "That's why he asked me to help him. He knew he wasn't going to die. He wasn't in any real danger."

He dipped his head in a reluctant nod. "Voldemort would never let him off that easily. He loves the game too much."

"Oh." She closed her eyes and fell silent, long enough for the dust in Draco's stomach to settle. She lifted her head, her doe eyes flooded with hesitant curiosity. "Can I ask you what your Tithe is?"

Draco flashed a wicked smile, a teasing glint on his face to hide the sinking weight in his chest. "I think that's enough questions for today." He ran his finger over the leather binding of his notebook. "Make sure he doesn't do anything stupid," he said, jerking his head in Theo's direction. "I'll be in my room." Hermione pocketed her wand and reached for the tea kettle. "Can I trust you to keep that out of sight, or do I have to take it?"

She placed a protective hand over her pocket. "It's fine."

"I told Pansy to stay away for a while, but she's worried. I'll call her to come over later, but I wouldn't put it past her to show up out of the blue."

"I'll keep it hidden," she assured him.

He nodded, watching carefully as she folded her shirt to cover it.

"Draco?" she asked as he turned away. "You don't trust Voldemort, right? You're looking for the cure yourself?"

He nodded slowly, unsure whether or not this was information with which she could be trusted, but ultimately remembering that it didn't matter much. If she were caught, the rest of them would either be dead, imprisoned, or in hiding anyway.

She bowed her head and fingered the fraying hem of her shirt. "I'd like to help if I can."

He wanted to say no. He wanted to say that she didn't know enough, she couldn't possibly contribute anything, but she'd proved herself to be at least semi-competent when she bound Theo's wounds. When she'd deduced Theo's Tithe.

 _Sneaky bastard_ , he thought, realizing Theo's secondary motivation in asking for Hermione's help. He should have known by now not to underestimate Theo. So many others had, and it usually resulted in their demise.

She continued, unprompted. "I saw some books on magical herbs and plants in Theo's bedroom. I skimmed through them, but I'll look harder to see if-"

"You won't find anything in there," he said, striding back to the bookshelf. He flipped through several before settling on one. "Herbology books were the first to go when the Ministry started burning books. If it held anything remotely useful regarding a cure, Voldemort wouldn't allow it to exist," He pressed the tip of his wand to the leatherbound book to decode his words and tossed it to her. "This one will be your best bet. I transcribed as much as I could before the Death Eaters combed the apartment. It all happened so fast, I couldn't absorb all of the information. Maybe you'll find something I missed." He doubted it, he'd been thorough, but at least it would give her something productive to do while Theo recovered.

She held the book with reverence, as if she could feel the weight of the knowledge she was holding in her hands. If Voldemort was successful, the information in that book couldn't be found anywhere else on the planet; apart from the library at Malfoy Manor, which Draco had access to, but he tended to be frugal with his favors. She thumbed through the pages. "Okay." She nodded to herself, eyes unfocused. "Okay. Okay."

He wondered if she knew she had a habit of repeating words to herself. "If Blaise comes back, tell him I need to talk to him, will you?"

She nodded, still staring at the floor in front of her as she slapped the leather book against her palm. "Yeah. Yeah, I will."

Draco shook his head. _Weirdo_. He lifted himself onto his toes to catch one last glance at Theo, who was still sound asleep on the couch, and left Hermione to her reading.

Once he was safe in his room, contained within his own four walls, Draco sank into his desk chair and buried his face in his hands. _Fuck. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuck._

He closed his eyes, but a thousand images of Theo, laying on the floor, covered in blood were seared into his mind. A thousand wretched memories already existed; how many more were yet to be created? The possibilities and the realities melted together in his mind in a horrific cacophony of devastation.

How would Voldemort react if Draco offered himself as a trade?

 _He'd laugh._ Watching his friends come home, scarred and scared and beaten and exhausted, was all part of Draco's punishment. Draco had only one piece of leverage, one card up his sleeve, and he wasn't ready to use it quite yet.

Pushing back his chair, he paced the length of his narrow bedroom. He caught sight of himself in the mirror above his dresser and tensed his muscles, forcing himself not to flinch at the bags below his eyes, his hollowed cheeks, his pronounced Adam's apple. He cocked his head, licked his chapped lips, and ran a hand through his greasy hair. With a tight, controlled wave of his wand, he cleaned the blood from his hands and then his face. The scratch from Pettigrew had stopped bleeding, but he didn't bother covering or healing the scab. It would heal in a few days. For now, he would savor the sight of the mark on his otherwise unmarred skin.

He stifled a groan and slammed his hands down on his desk. Voldemort couldn't be trusted to keep his word. Draco had to take control. All he had were his words and his hope, and neither seemed particularly formidable anymore. Day by day, Voldemort was working at stealing his voice, his mind, his convictions. And day by day, Draco felt himself fracturing into diametrically opposed halves. The Malfoy heir that was meant to inherit his father's position and enforce the Ordinance with unswerving loyalty and obedience was harboring a stray.

His hope, on the other hand, had been waning for months. It was an unbalanced sword; a feeble and mercurial weapon.

Opening up a blank notebook, Draco poured out his thoughts and theories, beginning with Hermione. He made a list of spells she needed to learn, potions she'd have to create, magical creatures she'd need to study.

On the adjacent page, he began a separate, albeit much shorter list: Alice Perry.

He didn't know the names of the others, and he didn't intend to find out. But it didn't seem right to condemn the girl to death in his personal hell without any evidence of her existence on the outside. 

When he finished transferring his thoughts from his mind to the paper, he leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling, expecting his head to feel empty, serene. But the image of Theo, bloody on the floor, the image of Hermione, healing his wounds, the feeling of _her_ power underneath _his_ skin, it was all still there. 

He stood and began pacing again, counting his steps.

On his fifth trip around the room, he once again saw his face in the mirror.

No, not his face. His father's face.

He pressed his knuckles into his eye sockets until he saw stars. Then, he cocked his fist, punched the mirror, and watched it shatter. He sucked in a deep breath as he examined the torn skin on his knuckles. The fresh blood covered the ink stains on his fingertips, which he curled into his palms. Covering his face with his elbow, he screamed into his sleeve. His shoulders slumped as he fell onto his bed, careful to keep his bloodied fingers away from the white sheets.

Someone pounded on the door. "Draco?" _Blaise._

He swallowed a groan. "I'm fine," he called.

Blaise threw the door open. "Did I ask how _you_ were doing?" He tossed a newspaper on Draco's lap. _The Daily Telegraph._

Draco lifted it, smearing blood on the edges. "This is a Muggle paper."

Blaise sat in Draco's desk chair and eyed the shattered mirror, but didn't say anything about it. Draco flipped the paper over. In the top corner was a small, black and white photograph of Hermione, posing in her school uniform with a vacant smile. _Missing_ , the headline read.

Draco skimmed the article.

_Hermione Granger, 21 years old, has been reported missing from her Hampstead home._

_No shit,_ Draco thought.

Further down: _After spending her two gap years working at a local nonprofit, Granger had plans to attend Cambridge University to study English Literature._

 _Predictable,_ Draco thought. _And impractical, it not a bit impressive._ He skimmed further.

_On the evening of her disappearance, her parents returned to the aftermath of a house fire. The fire department had already arrived at the scene. The Grangers declined to comment, but ask for any information regarding the whereabouts of their daughter._

_There,_ he thought. _That was the only paragraph that mattered. Who needs to know what she planned to study at university?_ Draco folded the paper back up. "Has she seen it?"

Blaise shook his head, reaching for the paper, but Draco kept it firmly in his own grasp. 

"Let's keep this between us then, yeah?"

"But Theo-"

"Can't keep a secret." He was too noble for his own good.

"He's kept yours," Blaise said. "All of yours."

But those were different, and they both knew it. Draco tossed the paper in his metal wastebasket. " _Incendio_." The paper burst into flames.

"She should know if the Muggle police are coming after her," Blaise reasoned.

"They won't," Draco said, planting his elbows on his knees and steepling his fingers over his mouth. "They can't. She's an adult, she can go wherever she wants."

"Right, but if she's a person of interest in an arson case..."

 _Fuck._ Draco lowered his head and pulled at his hair from the roots. Arson and a disappearance. This was exactly the kind of suspicious activity the Death Eaters looked for in the Muggle world. "I'll figure something out."

"Yeah," Blaise sighed, before swiftly changing the subject. "Does Pansy know? About Theo?"

Draco moved to his desk, still listless. "I told her he wasn't up for visitors, but I don't know how long that will placate her." He closed his notebook and encoded the words. "If I babysit Granger, can you take him to her place when he's awake?"

"He's not up for visitors, but he can travel across town?" Blaise asked.

Of course. _Fuck_. "She has to come here." Draco rubbed his eyes until spots dotted his vision. "Okay. Okay, we'll clean up Theo's room, and I'll take Granger to-"

"You can't take her anywhere. If any Muggles recognize her, or take a photo, you're both incriminated."

He closed his eyes. "Then she and I will stay in here," he said, reaching for the door. "Get rid of her as quickly as you can."

Blaise waved his wand to repair the shattered mirror, while Draco went to the kitchen. Theo was still fast asleep on the couch. "Pansy's coming over," he told Hermione without preamble.

She looked up, her pen between her lips, with Draco's notebook still open in front of her. She made an unintelligible sound.

Draco closed and encoded the notebook and hauled her to her feet. "Get everything that she gave you, and put it in my bedroom."

"Okay, okay." She shoved him away. "How are you covered in even more blood than when I last saw you?" she muttered, examining the blood that had transferred from his knuckles to her sleeve.

"Hurry," he said through clenched teeth. She grunted, but rushed to Theo's room to collect her belongings. Draco surveyed the scene before them. Pansy might perceive it to be odd that Theo was sleeping on the couch, but it would easily be explained by fatigue.

Pansy's hand-me-down coat hung by the front door. He heaved a sigh, thankful he'd caught that _before_ Pansy arrived. He brought it back to his bedroom, where he found Hermione hovering in the doorway, arms full of the clothing and toiletries that Pansy had gifted her. "You have everything?" he confirmed. "Everything from the bathroom?"

She nodded and exhaled as she dropped the pile on his desk. "That's everything," she said, running a hand through her kinky hair, only for it to fall right back in her eyes. A thundering _crack_ sounded through the apartment. Hermione shuddered and placed a balancing hand on the wall. Blaise had returned with Pansy.

"Don't touch anything. I'll be right back," Draco said, closing the door behind him. Pansy stood in their kitchen, still in her work clothes: black leggings, a black sweater, and black stiletto boots. The sharp eyeliner that lined her eyes was pristine and precise, but her bangs stuck out in all directions like she'd been combing her fingers through them for hours. She must have remained at the Manor for the rest of the day, distracting herself with work.

It meant less work for Draco, but a greater risk of Hermione being discovered.

"Can I get you anything?" Blaise asked Pansy. "Coffee? Tequila?"

"No tequila," Draco said, making his presence known. _Not after what happened last time._ "You have an hour," he told Pansy.

"It was a joke," Blaise said, filling a glass of water. 

"I would have taken you up on it," Pansy said. She shrugged out of her jacket and handed it to Blaise. "Oh, Theo." She knelt by his side and took his hand as he offered her a weak smile.

Draco rolled his eyes at her affectionate display. He was about to return to Hermione when a pair of white trainers by the door caught his attention. Women's trainers. _Pansy's_ trainers. He met Blaise's eyes as his palms began to sweat.

" _Evanesco_ ," he coughed, pointing his wand at the shoes. He'd get Hermione a new pair.

Pansy looked up. "What did you say?"

Draco shrugged innocently. "Nothing. I'll be in my room," he said. Theo glared at him. Draco winked as he passed the couch. "One hour!" He slammed the door behind him when he returned. " _Muffliato."_

Hermione had returned to the notebook. She was curled up on his desk chair, chin tucked to her chest, flipping through the pages. "Your handwriting is completely illegible," she complained, tapping her pen against the pages.

He didn't respond. Settling on his bed, he opened his own book and stared at the blank page.

For thirty seconds. A minute. Five minutes.

He kept the time by counting his heartbeats. Or maybe it was the sound of Hermione _tap tap tapping_ her pen against his desk. He lifted his shoulders to his ears in a vain attempt to drown her out, but like the sound of his heartbeat, it was unavoidable.

And finally, he snapped. "Do you mind?"

She looked up and blinked in surprise. " _What?_ "

"The incessant tapping," he said, dropping his quill. He pressed his fingers to his temple. "I can't think."

She twirled the pen in her fingers and ducked her head. "Sorry."

She ceased her tapping but began bouncing her knee against the underside of the desk. The noise was softer, but no less irritating. Draco pushed his notebook away, capped his inkwell, and stood. "This isn't working."

She kept her head down, but he could hear the eye-roll in her tone. "It was working fine for me, until you started talking."

"Stand up," he said, lifting his wand. She dropped her pen and spun in her chair, but didn't stand. "If I'm stuck on babysitting duty, we can at least make this worth my time."

She flushed, the tips of her ears flaming red. "No one's forcing you to-"

"Stand."

With a huff, she shoved the chair back and crossed her arms.

 _Insolent little-_ , he cut his thought short. "Has Theo taught you any defensive spells?"

She looked back at Draco's notebook, as if it would offer any help. "Not yet."

He nodded at her wand, which lay beside the notebook. Before she could even lift it, Draco raised his own. " _Expelliarmus,_ " he said as her wand flew from her hand.

She set her mouth in a line and trained her eyes on the floor at Draco's feet. He folded his hands, smirked, and waited for her to scold him, complain, yell, react. Instead, she shook her and returned to the chair. She tucked her knees to her chest and reached for the pen, leaving her wand on the floor. Draco narrowed his eyes at the rejection.

" _Rictusempra_ ," he said.

Hermione's eyes flashed with apprehension before she clutched her sides and doubled over in laughter. "Stop!" she gasped between forced laughs. A smile flitted across Draco's lips. He was pleased to exact some sort of retribution for the attack she'd performed on him in the kitchen. "Please!" He cocked his head. Her shoulders shook with uncontrollable, unbridled laugher "Draco, I- I will-"

He removed the spell and waited for Hermione to recover. She panted, swallowing large gulps of air. "You'll do what?" he asked. She shook her head, coughing. "Bet you wish you knew how to counteract that, huh?" he said, crossing his arms and leaning against the back wall. She hiccuped.

Hermione picked up her wand and held it out, though Draco knew she hadn't any idea how to use it properly. All of the magic she'd performed thus far had been either under supervision or by accident. "Voldemort hasn't caught me yet," she said, her words coated with a tone of indifference. "I'm still my own person, for now at least." She lowered her wand and turned away from him. "I prefer Theo as my teacher."

"Your preference doesn't change the fact that we can't leave this room until Pansy's gone. Might as well do something." He reached around her, snatching the notebook from beneath her forearm.

"Hey," she protested, grasping at it, but he pulled it out of reach and encoded the words before she could steal it back. " _You_ can leave. Make this easier on both of us and get out."

"And leave you alone in here with all of my worldly possessions?"

Hermione raised an eyebrow and glanced around the bare room. "I think you're just scared of facing Pansy."

He exhaled. "Look, Theo can teach you the theory of dueling spells until he's blue in the face," Draco said, placing the unreadable book back in front of her. She glared at it. "But I don't think I need to remind you that he's more vulnerable than the rest of us. If you're going to really learn how to fight, you'll need a sparring partner who isn't on the verge of collapsing at all times."

It wasn't wholly true. Theo was fine at dueling; lacking in offensive spells, but better than Draco at most defensive magic, and the only wizard his age that could produce a Patronus, as far as Draco knew. The blood malediction only affected his physical strength, for now. But Hermione didn't know that, and that was all that mattered.

"Will you actually teach me anything, or just laugh while you torture me?"

His frown deepened as he pushed off from the wall, moving to stand over her, his silver eyes flashing with unchecked malice. "You shouldn't use that word so flippantly," he sneered. "Your fancy Cambridge education won't even begin to teach you the definition of that word."

She faltered and pursed her lips. Draco paused. She didn't know about the newspaper, and he wasn't supposed to know about Cambridge.

But she didn't seem to realize his slip-up.

"I-I don't-" she stammered. "Theo. I didn't think about- Oh, God." She covered her face.

 _Theo_. Draco's heart cleaved. Of course, she was thinking of Theo. The guilt rose like smoke in his lungs: thick and suffocating. Draco should have been thinking of Theo, instead of pitying himself.

Draco wasn't tortured; he was privileged.

It was difficult to tell the difference these days. Lines were blurred, and the world existed in so many shades of grey. 

He cleared his throat. "In the event someone _is_ trying to torture you, you should know the Shield Charm."

She uncovered her face and refocused her eyes on him, their argument apparently forgotten by both of them. She reached for her wand and situated herself so she was seated on the desk with her bare feet on his chair. " _Protego,_ " she recited. "I read about it, but I couldn't get the wand motion from the description."

Draco took a step back and slowly traced the movement with his wand. "Ready?"

She nodded and copied his motions. Before she could finish the incantation, Draco said, " _Stupefy_!"

She let out a small squeak and fell against the wall, unconscious from the Stunning Spell. He waved his wand to revive her and rubbed the back of his neck, disappointed, but not surprised. Hermione pressed her hands to her cheeks, then her chest, then her knees, as if making sure her body was still intact. Then she tensed her jaw and spoke to her lap. "You said-"

"No, I didn't. Again."

She readjusted her grip, and performed the spell, quicker this time.

" _Stupefy,_ " Draco said.

Hermione's shield held, but just barely. Her wrists quivered and her brows furrowed in concentration as she pushed against Draco's Stunning Spell.

Draco observed her, scrutinizing her positioning, looking for something to critique, when he saw her hands. Thin, translucent strands of gold wound up her forearm, over her hands, through her fingertips, like veins. Draco dropped his wand. Hermione let her shield drop. The gold disappeared.

He was silent, staring at her hands, hoping it would reappear. "What was that?"

She followed his gaze to her wand. "What was _what_?"

He looked back at her face and hardened his expression. "Go again."

She murmured the incantation. Draco tried a more aggressive spell; _Bombarda._ But Hermione was prepared and easily deflected it. No gold veins appeared this time. She straightened and squared her shoulders as he lowered his wand and rubbed his throat. "Take that," she taunted, mistaking his perplexion for distress.

"Good," he said, turning around to stare at the wall as if held any of the answers he sought. "That was good."

"It doesn't sound like you actually think so," she said, her statement punctuated by the sound of her feet landing on the wooden floor.

He needed a more powerful spell. One that she'd struggle to repel.

Theo was going to murder him, but he had to try.

He turned around. "I'm going to try _Crucio_ on you."

A blank look crossed her face, before one of horror replaced it. She crossed her arms over her chest. Her shoulders sank and caved. She took a shaky step back until her shoulder blades hit the wall. "No, you're not," she said.

"It's not-" He shook his head. "You can block it. You just did, it'll only take a little bit more effort."

"No," she said, louder this time. "Is this because of what I said? Draco, I wasn't think-"

A knock on the door. Blaise poked his head in. "She's gone. You can come out."

Hermione disregarded the pile of clothing and toiletries and made to brush past Blaise without another word. Draco grabbed her wrist. "Wait."

She wrenched her arm away from him and kept moving, but Blaise blocked the door, eyeing Draco skeptically.

"Get out of my way," she said to her feet.

"I just want to try something," Draco said. He put his wand down and held up his hands. "I'm not going to torture you."

Blaise scoffed. "You were only in here for an hour. What on earth did you do to her?"

Draco ignored him. "Give me your hand."

Her eyes bounced the two of them, arms still protectively covering her torso, her fingers wrapped tight around her wand. Draco forced his eyes to soften and held out his bloody knuckles. "Heal them."

She licked her lips, and glanced at Blaise. He nodded. Hermione took a tentative step forward and held Draco's hand in hers. She lifted her wand and Draco clamped his free hand over her wand. She tensed at the sudden contact, but he let go just as suddenly. "Blaise, hold that hand while she does it."

"I know how to do it," she grumbled. "I did about thirty times just a few hours ago."

Draco shrugged. "Humor me."

Blaise rested his gentle fingers around hers. She exhaled and looked up at the ceiling in disbelief before focusing her attention back on Draco. " _Vulnera sanentur_."

Blaise released her hand before she finished the spell. This time, there were no golden veins, no physical, observable manifestation of her magic, aside from the fact that Draco's knuckles were now clean and unmarred, but the look on Blaise's face told him everything. "What the fuck?" he demanded. He flexed and curled his fingers. "I felt it."

Hermione snatched her hand away from Draco and rubbed it on her shirt. He tried not to be offended. "What? What happened?"

"I felt your magic," Blaise said, speaking to Hermione, but looking at Draco.

Hermione was silent. And then, "What does that mean?"

Draco sat on his bed. His eyes were drooping, but his mind was racing, his adrenaline pumping. He wouldn't be sleeping tonight. "I have no idea," he said, regretting the way that the lie came as easily as breathing.


	12. the aconite

Pansy knew she was missing something. They were keeping secrets from her. She wished she hadn't noticed. She wished Draco had done a better job at hiding it. More than anything, she wished _this_ had been someone else's job, so her only friends didn't have to keep her at arm's length.

She took the long route to the ballroom, avoiding the house-elves and Mudblood servants. Today, more than ever, she wasn't interested in their hatred. She wasn't interested in their envy. And she most certainly wasn't interested in their pity.

When she arrived outside the ballroom, the Mudblood attendant offered to take her cloak. Pansy declined. She'd need all the protection she could get; even if it was only a facade. 

Without waiting for her signal, the attendant—a pretty, young blonde girl with a thick silver band around her throat and a vertical scar bisecting her cheek—opened the door. Pansy froze, exposed to the small audience waiting just beyond the threshold. She glared at the Mudblood, who simply straight ahead. Her indifferent, professional expression only served to further infuriate Pansy. What was the fun in giving orders if her subordinates didn't carry them out? 

The Mudbloods showed Pansy the respect due to her, but they found every opportunity to snub her, unlike Draco, whom they hated, but obeyed. It was one of the perks that came with being Voldemort's favorite pet, along with the apartment right outside of Zone 1, and a more than adequate salary. Of course, Pansy knew all too well that the downsides far outweighed the advantages. 

"Next time," she hissed to the girl, "wait until I give you a direct order." 

The Mudblood's collar bobbed as she swallowed, but she lifted her chin higher, daring to look Pansy in the eye. "Of course, ma'am. My apologies, ma'am," she replied in a honeyed, scratchy voice. The girl only ever spoke to acknowledge her masters. Pansy scowled. The usual satisfaction she received from bossing people around was lost. 

Days like today made it abundantly clear just how transient her fragile power was.

She set her jaw and allowed Nagini to lead her to the center of the room, where Voldemort, Lucius, Narcissa, Bellatrix, and three masked Death Eaters waited for her. With the bone masks covering their features, Pansy was forced to rely on their statures to decipher their identities. Dolohov, Crabbe, and Rodolphus Lestrange, she guessed. 

The room appeared to be in greyscale, save for the flickering green flames and Nagini's skin; even Lucius and Narcissa's fair hair and pale skin were grey and sallow. Nagini stopped in the middle of the floor, flicking her forked tongue at Pansy. "Miss Parkinson!" Voldemort said, throwing his arms out as he glided across the tile toward her. "Right on time." Pansy remained silent. "No need to delay, is there? Let's get started." 

Her stomach churned as she knelt at the Dark Lord's feet and bowed her head. Voldemort stepped forward and extended his thin, notched wand: the Elder Wand. The Deathstick. Her parents used to speak of what an honor it was that he used the Elder Wand on her. _He only uses it on powerful wizards_ , they said. For everyday use, he wielded his yew wand with a phoenix feather core. 

She wondered whether her mother felt _honored_ when she saw a flash of green light from the Elder Wand. The last thing she ever saw.   
  
" _Legilimens_ ," said Voldemort as he touched the tip of his wand to her forehead.

A strange pressure weighed onto the base of her neck. She couldn't keep herself from falling forward, catching herself with her hands. She clenched her eyes shut as Voldemort sorted through her head, relegating Pansy to be a mere spectator in her own memories; a stranger in her own mind.

The memories came in waves, flooding to the surface of her mind by their own volition, despite her desperate attempts to push them down. Draco declaring his loyalty to Voldemort in Azkaban, when they'd collected Peter Pettigrew. _Thank Salazar he'd lied to her then._ Herself and Blaise, tangled in her silk sheets. _Embarrassing, but not incriminating._ Theo, pale and scarred on his couch. _Horrible for her, satisfying for Voldemort._ Draco performing a Vanishing Spell when he thought she wasn't looking. _Oh no._ Draco cutting himself off when he was about to divulge a secret. _Please, no._ Draco looking at the Registry with a bit more interest than usual. Draco kicking her out of their apartment. Draco insisting she couldn't see Theo. The gap in her drunken memories the night that he called her a _stupid, arrogant whore_. _Fuck_.

The pressure on her neck released. She blinked a few times as she readjusted to the pallid green glow of the ballroom, to being in control of her vision and her body. Voldemort stood tall before her, hands clasped neatly in front of him. "Thank you, Miss Parkinson," he said.

She lowered her head and hunched her shoulders. Maybe showing more deference than usual would keep him from thinking about her memories too much. "Of course, Master." She made herself small, feigning submission, not unlike the Mudblood that stood guard right outside the ballroom door. Lying in wait, living a life of servitude until freedom was within her grasp. 

Voldemort spoke, bringing her back to reality. "Tell me—" she closed her eyes— "have you noticed Draco behaving... oddly, lately?" Voldemort asked her. 

In her periphery, Pansy saw Lucius' head rise at the mention of his son.

"Not at the time, my Lord," Pansy said, filling her words with as much truth as possible while still protecting her best friend. Voldemort would know if she lied.  
  
He nodded, satisfied with her answer. He turned to the small crowd behind him. "Have any of you?" 

Bellatrix shook her head, leaning forward, ready to fling herself at Voldemort's feet at a moment's notice. Unfortunately for her, Voldemort was wholly uninterested in anything she had to say. 

"Speak now, Lucius," Voldemort said, skimming a sharp nail across Lucius' jawline. "If I find out you have been lying, I will show no mercy."

Lucius shook his head, recoiling from the Dark Lord's touch. "I know nothing, Master."

"Narcissa?" Voldemort snapped, growing irate.

She inclined her head and twisted the ring on her finger. "No, my Lord."

"Hmm," Voldemort mused. His robes brushed Pansy's face as he spun around. She rocked back to sit on her heels. "Very well then."

Pansy was unsure whether his words were a dismissal, but she remained on her knees, despite the discomfort of the old, cracking tile.

"Thank you all for your candor," Voldemort spoke to all of them, his voice returning to its airy and pleasant tenor. "I mean no offense, but I suppose I should send someone over to young Master Malfoy's dwelling." He turned to make eye contact with Pansy, who quickly averted her gaze back to the floor. "Just to be sure."  
  


· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·  
  


Back in Camden, the rain fell in sheets against the window, so thick and grey that Hermione could barely see the street through the glass.

"These are real fairy wings?" She made a face as she dropped one in the boiling cauldron.

"Try not to think about how we harvested them," Theo suggested with a mischievous smirk.

Hermione swallowed and set her wand down. "Impossible, now that you've mentioned it. Thanks."

She sat cross-legged on the floor, leaning against the couch where Theo lay, covered in a blanket. He was still recovering from Voldemort's torture, but apparently felt well enough to instruct Hermione on how to execute a Blood-Replenishing potion. Draco sat at the kitchen table, hunched over a textbook, scribbling in his notebooks, and muttering to himself under his breath, per usual. Blaise had spent the morning bouncing between the sitting room and the kitchen, taking turns distracting both of them from their work.

Eventually, Draco spat a curse, hissed something about Obscurials, and stalked into his bedroom, leaving Hermione as Blaise's sole victim. 

"Looks good, Granger," Blaise said, leaning over the couch and ruffling Theo's hair.

"I think I'm going to be sick," she said, pressing the back of her hand to her nose.

"You get used to it," Theo assured her. "This isn't even the worst ingredient. Some potions require dragon dung."

"Or a bat's eye," Blaise added.

Hermione wrinkled her nose and curled her lip. "Please tell me you don't keep those on hand?"

Blaise and Theo exchanged a look and a shrug. "Fine. I won't tell you anything," said Theo. 

She tried her best to cover her look of disgust as she continued stirring the potion. _It's to help Theo,_ she told herself. _Theo is more important than a fairy. You have never even met a fairy._  
  
Was that true? Who was Hermione to rank the importance of sentient beings? If a fairy were in dire need of human appendages in order to cure a sickness, to what length would they go to attain it? 

A headache blossomed behind her eyes as she pondered the hypotheticals. She shook her head. _Focus on the task at hand,_ she reminded herself. _Focus on the equation. Focus on the facts._

She leaned back against the couch and watched the potion simmer. "I think I made too much; do you have extra vials I can put it in?" she asked, holding up the only one Blaise had given her. 

Without pulling out his wand, Blaise waved a hand, and three large flasks deposited themselves into Hermione's lap.

Blaise patted the top of Theo's head one last time. "If you two can hold down the fort, I'm going to pick up dinner," Blaise said. 

Hermione stretched her arms over her head as she stood. "Mind if I come with you?" she asked. 

He scratched the back of his head and looked out the window. "It's raining pretty hard."

"I don't mind." She hadn't left the apartment in two days. Forty-eight hours, in Hermione's opinion, was far too long to be stuck in a tiny flat with Draco Malfoy. She needed out. 

He shifted his weight and glanced toward Draco's room. Hermione followed his gaze. Draco hadn't yet emerged. "I don't think so."

She scowled. "Did Draco-"

"Don't blame Draco for this," Blaise implored, interrupting her. She fell silent, keeping her eyes on the hallway that led to Draco's bedroom. "You were in a Muggle newspaper." Hermione pulled her attention back to Blaise. 

Theo sat up, clutching his oblique muscles. " _What?_ " he asked around a gasp of pain.

Blaise ignored him. "Death Eaters keep their eyes on the news, you know. Mysterious occurrences can often be traced back to Muggle-borns who don't know their own strength."

"Oh," she frowned into the cauldron, more concerned with the fact itself than Blaise and Draco keeping it from her. She sank to her knees on the plush carpet. "Oh," she repeated, her lips parting as the fact seemed to settle over her. She nodded, more to herself than to Blaise. "Okay." 

Blaise cocked an eyebrow. "Okay?"

She filled the flask with the simmering potion and handed it to Theo, eyebrows pulled together as she gnawed on her bottom lip. Her hands shook, but she forced her mind to stay sharp, focused. "Well, I suppose it was bound to happen eventually, wasn't it? Strange circumstances and all. As long as my parents are safe..." she trailed off and looked up at Blaise, unblinking. "They are safe, aren't they?"

"Well, yes," Blaise said. Hermione nodded again. She leaned against the couch. "But this means you can't be leaving the apartment anytime soon, since both the Wizarding and Muggle authorities might be on the lookout for you."

She accepted the empty flask from Theo and performed a Scouring Charm with ease before setting the clean flask beside the cauldron. She threaded her fingers through her hair, over and over. "Right. Yes"

He eyed her warily but didn't pursue the argument any further. He put on his hat and jacket, but before he could turn the doorknob, someone knocked. 

Hermione leaped to her feet. Theo's eyebrows shot up to his hairline. "Is that Pansy?"

Blaise snorted. "When has Pansy ever knocked?" His voice was light but he had his wand extended as he looked through the peephole. He recoiled almost immediately, eyes wide with panic. "Greyback," he whispered, low enough that Hermione almost missed it.

Hermione's feet moved of their own accord, although she wasn't sure where she should go, or even what _Greyback_ meant.

"Come on," Draco said, suddenly appearing by her side. He took her by the elbow and tugged her toward the bathroom. As they passed the kitchen table, he tapped his notebook, encoding his words, and tucked it into his pocket. He then transfigured the cover of the thick volume, changing _Mystical Theory_ to _The Complete Works of William Shakespeare._ "Get in," he said, shoving her toward the shower. 

"What's going on?" she asked, her mind still on her parents. He followed her through the curtain and reached for the faucet.

"What are you-" she asked, cut off by the sudden downpour. A small yelp escaped her lips.

"Shut up," Draco scolded her. The top of his head nearly reached the showerhead, blocking a significant amount of the water from hitting Hermione's clothes, but not enough to keep her dry. "We're hiding."

She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned into the corner, trying to stay as far away from the freezing water as possible, but it proved difficult with two bodies in the small space. "But why do we have to be _in_ the shower?" she hissed, furiously blinking water from her eyes.

Draco cupped a hand over her mouth as a heavy fist pounded on the door. Hermione flinched and latched her fingers around his white dress shirt, which was soaked to the point of being nearly transparent. He released her and wiped a hand over his face. "Occupied?" he called out. 

An irritated grunt sounded from the other side of the door, but Greyback made no other attempt to enter.

"Who is that?" Hermione asked, lowering her voice to a whisper and releasing Draco's shirt.

Draco pressed a finger over his mouth and leaned closer, so his lips brushed her hair as he spoke right in her ear. "He's a werewolf."

 _Werewolves_. She placed a hand on the slick tile wall and curled her toes. Of course, werewolves existed. She'd met wizards and witches, had seen fairy wings, and owls that obeyed human masters. Why wouldn't there be werewolves? For all she knew, vampires existed, and mermaids lived in the Thames. She forced herself to inhale. Exhale. Regain her balance, reclaim her composure. She tapped her ear and mouthed, _Can he hear us?_

Draco nodded and pointed to the showerhead. Then he tapped his nose. _And smell_ , he mouthed back. 

She thinned her lips and nodded in understanding, looking up at the source of water. The noise from the running water would confuse the werewolf on both accounts. 

Another knock sounded on the bathroom door. Hermione gripped Draco's forearms for balance.

"Draco?" Theo called with an air of confidence. The voice of someone with nothing to hide. "Voldemort sent Fenrir Greyback to check up on us," he said, pretending that Draco had been in the shower the whole time. "He needs to search the bathroom."

Draco squeezed his eyes shut and tipped his head back, letting the water run down his face in streams. "One moment!" 

He took another glance at Hermione, focusing and unfocusing his eyes as he developed a plan. With three quick, silent spells, he changed her hair from brown and bushy to a sleek, fiery orange, removed her freckles, and lengthened her nose. "Take off your shirt," he ordered. 

" _Excuse me?_ " she said, covering her chest once more and forcing herself back into the corner. 

"Your shirt," he groaned and stepped out of the shower and began undressing. Hermione ducked behind the shower curtain, took a deep breath, and removed her soaked shirt. "Turn off the tap," he said. As she did, Draco wrapped a towel around his waist and opened the door. "Good afternoon, gentlemen," he said jovially, though he kept his hands firmly placed on either side of the doorframe, blocking Greyback's entrance. He poked his head into the hallway. "I see you've had no qualms about thoroughly inspecting my home, and while I have nothing to hide from the Dark Lord, I do have a lady back here, and I must insist you stay out."

With trembling fingers, Hermione pulled the shower curtain back, just enough so that Greyback, along with another man, could see her bare shoulders. 

It was not difficult to act scared and confused, as Draco had told her. Greyback towered over Draco, easily looking over his head at Hermione with red, inhuman eyes. He dragged a slow, deliberate tongue over his bottom lip and rubbed a hand down the side of his hairy face. She gasped in surprise and yanked the shower curtain closed. 

"What's her name?" asked an animalistic voice. The werewolf. Greyback. 

"Alice Perry," Draco lied smoothly. "A Muggle. You're creating quite the mess for me." 

"It still stands, Master Malfoy," said a perky, articulate voice, "that the Dark Lord has ordered us to do a complete sweep of your apartment. _I_ must insist that you allow us to enter." 

Draco cleared his throat. The muscles on his bare back flexed. "Fine. At least allow her the dignity to be fully clothed," he said, his tone venomous. The man bowed and left the doorway. 

When Draco slammed the door shut, Hermione hastily put her shirt back on and stepped out of the shower. " _What are you-_ "

He shook his head and pressed his finger to his lips. With shaking hands, he lifted his wand and shot a blast of hot air over her sweatshirt and jeans, effectively drying them in only a few seconds. "Just be quiet and follow my lead," he whispered and shoved open the door. Greyback's feral eyes and sharpened canines were no less surprising the second time she saw them. She swallowed another yelp and clutched Draco's arm. He slung it around her shoulders and led her away from Greyback and the other Death Eater. "As I said, she's a Muggle," Draco whispered to them. "I'll _Obliviate_ her while you check the bathroom." He pressed a hand into the small of Hermione's back, urging her to go ahead. "I'm well aware that warning me ahead of a surprise inspection defeats the purpose," he hissed. Hermione entered Draco's bedroom and pressed her ear against the door. "But there are some instances in which doing some sort of reconnaissance might behoove you." 

Greyback only grunted in reply. Draco entered his bedroom and let out a low whistle when he saw the state of it. His sheets had been shredded, his clothes lay in piles across the floor, the drawers of his desk had been turned out, but he didn't dwell on any of it. He pulled out a spare piece of paper and in his messy, tight handwriting, scrawled, _Greyback still listening, will tell Voldemort you're here. Stay quiet, don't worry._ He handed her the paper, gave her five seconds to read it, before setting it on fire with his wand. Hermione tensed, waiting for the fire to reach her fingers, but it never did. The paper didn't turn into a pile of ash, it simply disappeared. 

Draco glanced back toward the door. He tucked his wand away and said, " _Obliviate,"_ before exiting the bedroom. Again, she leaned against the door but heard nothing apart from a low, electric thrum. Draco had placed a Muffling Charm on the room. 

Nearly ten minutes later, Blaise knocked on the door and informed Hermione that it was safe to leave. She took a tentative step into the kitchen and sat at the table beside Theo. "What happened?" she asked. 

"Pansy, probably," Theo said from behind his mug. Hermione could see it was full of amber liquid. Definitely not coffee. "Greyback wanted to kill you on the spot."

Hermione swallowed a cough. She wouldn't have minded if Theo offered her a glass of that whisky. "And? You convinced him not to tell Voldemort about me?" 

Blaise shook his head. "I'm sure Voldemort already knows."

Her heart sped, her shoulders shook, her mouth went dry. "What about Pansy's things? Didn't he see those?"

"Calm down before you give yourself a panic attack," Draco said from his perch on the counter. "You're not the first _Muggle_ I've brought home. Right now, Voldemort doesn't have any reason to believe you're a witch."

"But if he's-"

"You know, it benefits Voldemort to keep me happy more than he'd like to admit." Hermione hadn't the faintest idea what he meant by that. "It shouldn't be too difficult to keep him off your trail. This time, at least," he said. "Let's just not make a habit of it." She silently watched him slide down from the counter and close the distance between them. "Red hair doesn't suit you," he said, waving his wand. Hermione's hand automatically went to her head, then to her face. Her bushy curls had returned. 

"Thank you," she whispered, dropping the subject of Voldemort. She turned to Blaise. "I guess I'll have to learn how to do that if I ever want to leave the house again."

Draco's gaze darkened. "What does that mean?" Hermione froze. He took a step back and glared at Blaise. "You _told_ her?"

She closed her eyes. _How do you manage to always say the wrong thing at the wrong time?_ "I'm glad he told me," Hermione offered, but no one seemed at all interested in what she had to say. 

Blaise opened his mouth, but no words came out. Draco raised his eyebrows, demanding an answer. Blaise shrugged and held up his hands before trying again. "I had to explain why we-"

"Oh, you _had_ to, did you?" Draco pulled back his shoulders, lifted his chest, and took a step closer to Blaise, knuckles whitening as he tightened his grip on his wand. 

Hermione looked to Theo for direction on how to diffuse the tension, but he was suddenly engrossed by the fingernails on his left hand. _Boys._ She took a step between Blaise and Draco. "Yes, he did," she said emphatically. "It's about me, and I deserved to know."

He shifted his gunmetal eyes to her. All his softness and all his teasing had vanished from his expression. "That's your problem, Granger. You think you're entitled to whatever you please." Theo looked up and rubbed his neck, attention shifting between the two of them. Hermione snapped her mouth shut. "Outside these four walls, Mudbl-" He stopped himself and took a deep breath. Speaking at a lower octave, he began again: "Hierarchies exist for a reason. I'm not sorry I didn't tell you." Having said his piece, he brushed past Blaise's shoulder and exited the kitchen.

Hermione crossed her arms and watched his figure disappear behind the wall with pensive indifference. Theo and Blaise remained silent, communicating only by raising their eyebrows and shaking their heads. After a moment, Hermione dropped her arms and took a step forward. Theo blocked her path and placed both hands on her shoulders.

"Don't worry about it. It's not about you," he said, tightening his grip. "He'll apologize eventually, he just needs some time to calm down."

Hermione looked around Theo's shoulder, to where Draco had disappeared. If his anger wasn't toward her, then there was no reason for her to cower and wait around all day for him to pluck up the courage to apologize. Besides, the Death Eaters were looking for her, then surely Draco Malfoy was the least of her worries. 

She felt the weight of her wand in her pocket, the power in her veins, and all her fragile fortitude on her shoulders. Hierarchies shifted. She ducked out from beneath Theo's arms, and she walked into the snake pit.


	13. the amaranth

Draco often felt like he only truly existed between the pages of his notebooks. His pen and paper were the only things that ever saw the whole of him, unfiltered. Then again, Draco's existence could never fit neatly on the shelves in his living room as his notebooks did. He was too messy, too disastrous. All of his multitudes and all of his contradictions seemed to be getting too big to fit into those little squares. 

He tossed the notebook onto his desk and began pacing his bedroom, only managing to make it three or four steps before he was forced to turn around. After three laps, right when he was about to begin pulling his hair out, Hermione walked through the door. He dropped his hands from his head and sank onto his bed. "If you're looking for an apology-"

"I'm not," she said, stepping inside his bedroom. "Call me a Mudblood all you like. I don't let silly words hold any power over me." 

He looked at the floor. "If you had grown up in the Wizarding World, you wouldn't be saying that." 

"I didn't, so it's just a word." She shut the door and leaned against it, pressing her hands into the small of her back. 

He sighed. "In that case, I apologize for almost calling you a Mudblood." 

The corner of her mouth turned up. She tucked in her lips to smother her growing smile. "No harm, no foul." 

Right as he was about to ask her purpose of being in his bedroom, his eagle owl tapped on the window pane. Hermione watched with rapt interest as he opened his window and allowed it to enter. It took two laps around his small bedroom, rainwater dripping from the tips of its feathers, before settling on his shoulders. Draco glanced at Hermione's awe-struck expression. "She's called Eurydice," he informed Hermione, unwrapping the small scroll from her leg. Eurydice's wings and beak dripped water onto his furniture, but the parchment remained bone dry. 

"How fitting," Hermione replied, wiping the rainwater from her cheeks. She lifted herself onto her toes, craning her neck to see the parchment. "Who's the letter from?" 

"My mother," he said. He scanned his mother's elegant penmanship, her ostentatious signature. His attention lingered on the Malfoy crest at the bottom, complete with the family motto. _Sanctimonia Vincet Semper._

 _Purity always conquers._

He tucked the parchment away, hoping Hermione couldn't read Latin. "She wants me to have tea with her over the weekend. If not, we can expect a visit." He laughed, but it came out more like a cough. "She usually doesn't give me notice. I guess she wants to make sure I clean up whatever mess Fenrir left behind before she shows."

Hermione leaned her head against the wall, eyebrows knitted together. She frowned. "I didn't realize..."

"That I have parents?" 

The tips of Hermione's ears glowed red. "No, of course, that's not what I meant." She wrung her wrists and looked around the room, even though nothing had changed since she'd last been in there only an hour ago. "Blaise mentioned you work for your father." Draco swallowed a bitter laugh. "Do you get on with them well?" She skimmed her fingers across the closed notebook on his desk. For a moment, his heart stopped. Had he remembered to encode that one?

She didn't bother to open it. 

"Why does it matter?" He didn't appreciate the incessant interrogations about the Wizarding World on a daily basis, but he downright hated her newfound interest in his backstory. 

She rested her head against the door. "I mean, how would they feel if they knew about me?" 

He flinched at the image. She sighed, reading his expression. "It's nothing personal," he assured her, though he wasn't sure his father would appreciate her even if she were a pure-blood. He found overtly obstinate women disagreeable. "But it's a good thing she warned me. I don't know how much longer we can hide you in my bedroom while we have guests over." She turned to face him while he summoned a quill and a spare bit of parchment from his desk. "Is that all?" he asked.

"Have you ever thought of standing up to them?" she asked. His name was all sharp edges and bitter pleas on her tongue. "I know you said- but I don't understand- if you're as good at magic as you claim to be- and if you managed to form a coalition-"

"You don't know what you're talking about," he snapped. His mother was waiting for a reply; he couldn't sit around all day waiting for her to spit out one measly sentence. "You'll never know what it's like."

"You keep saying that," she said, "but Theo's told me about the Ordinance, and I've seen him after Voldemort— for Christ's sake, I'm the one who healed him that night!" She clenched her fists and lifted them to her forehead. "I don't know what you're trying to hide from me. I've seen what he can do." 

"So, why has the message not sunk in?" he asked, raising his voice. Theo and Blaise were almost certainly eavesdropping, but he couldn't bring himself to care. "Do you need me to bring you to Voldemort? Do you think you'll finally understand what's at stake if I serve you to him on a silver platter and allow him to do whatever the fuck he wishes with you?" _How many times had they had this argument?_

"You wouldn't." She said it without a tone of dissuasion. She said it without fear. She was calling his bluff. 

A humorless laugh bubbled from his mouth. "Yeah? Try me."

"I have. Over and over and over again." She hadn't moved from her post at the door, and he remained on his bed, with Eurydice on his shoulder. "If you were going to sell me out, you would have the first night I came here." She took a step forward. "Or when Pansy showed up." Another step. "Or to Greyback. But you didn't, and you won't." He was back to wanting to pull his hair out of his head, strand by strand. She tilted her head and studied his face. Never in his life had he wished for one of the Death Eaters' bone masks more than at that moment. 

He sank back to the wall, wrinkling the crisp fold of his sheets. "It's not like I haven't thought about fighting Voldemort and the Death Eaters," he said. "In school, people would talk about an uprising."

"People," Hermione clarified, inching forward until she was close enough to perch on the edge of his bed. When he didn't object, she pulled her knees up to her chest and rested her back against the wall, brushing her shoulder against his. "But not you." 

"Of course not," he said. "The Ordinance was designed to make pure-bloods happy. My father and aunt most of all. I couldn't publicly express my disagreements." Draco weighed how much he was willing to discuss his family. He disagreed with Lucius, but he still owed Lucius his unswerving loyalty and respect. He owed Hermione nothing. 

But he found it increasingly difficult to deny her. 

"And it worked?"

"Unequivocally. For a while." A long while. Most of his childhood was marked with memories of his father expressing his pleasure at the results of the Ordinance. Mudbloods finally knew their place. Voldemort finally rewarded Lucius for his years of faithful service. Draco himself grew up with Mudbloods waiting on him hand and foot, and he'd enjoyed it. What young, impressionable boy wouldn't like having the entire world laid at his feet?

Voldemort and the Death Eaters spoke of opulence, of influence, of power. Voldemort had promised them everything. But everything came with a price. 

"And then?" she asked.

"And then the Tithes."

Narcissa was the only one who'd seen their downfall coming. 

Voldemort was never going to be satisfied with dominion over Mudbloods. It was inevitable that he would seek to subjugate the half-bloods next, and then pure-bloods. And the sycophantic Death Eaters made it all too easy for him. As long as they could wear their paper crowns and sit on their glass thrones, the Death Eaters allowed Voldemort to do whatever he pleased. He burned their crowns, shattered their thrones, forced them to kneel before him. 

But he called them kings, and the Death Eaters were foolish enough to believe it. 

Draco had been foolish enough to believe it. 

Hermione couldn't be trusted to form an objective opinion of his family—of him— if he was that explicit. If they were to have this conversation, it was best to keep it nebulous for now. 

"Do you ever wish it were different?"

"Yes," he said without hesitation. "I'm twenty years old. I'm supposed to get drunk with my friends, and sleep with the wrong people, and make mistakes, and instead, I'm taking care of my dying friend that comes home once a month bleeding like-" He faltered, looking down at Hermione over his shoulder. "Well, you know." 

"I know," she said. Eurydice pecked at Draco's hand, still waiting for a response. Draco didn't move. "I'm supposed to attend Cambridge in the autumn. Full ride" she said. "I've never made any mistakes. I was top of my class. I worked hard for the right internships. I did everything right, and it all came tumbling down because of a stupid gift I didn't ask for and never learned how to control." 

He looked at her hands. Just the other day, he had seen how that loss of control manifested: the golden ropes in her arms, the intoxicating, visceral rush of power. So much power, in fact, that it came off her in waves. He felt it when she accidentally hexed him, without her words, and without her wand. Granted, it had only been a pathetic Tickling Charm, but with practice, she'd soon be doing advanced magic without having to lift a finger. That was the kind of power that men killed for. Men like Tom Riddle. Men like Lucius, and Bellatrix, and Dolohov. Men like Draco. 

And how lucky was he, that he hadn't needed to kill for it? It had simply shown up at his door, and now it existed only by his mercy. Voldemort would have seized every opportunity that this vessel delivered to him.

"That's almost enough to make me envious," he mused. She craned her neck to look up at him with wide and innocent doe eyes. "The destruction, I mean. The recklessness." He folded his hands over his knees. At least Hermione's future had changed because of something she'd done. Accident or otherwise, she was the only one responsible. "I've been told for my entire life that the chain of command is the most important thing. Loyalty and duty should be valued above all else. It wasn't until I was seventeen and learned what my Tithe would be that I even began to question that."

If a god existed, Draco prayed to them that Hermione wouldn't ask him about his Tithe. He wasn't sure how long he could keep denying her the answer to her most basic, intuitive question.

She remained silent. He continued. "When the second incarnation of the Order of the Phoenix was founded a few years ago, I thought about joining. We all did, but was just a fantasy." _Especially when Voldemort lives in your house._ "Obedience, order, and control. It's simpler." _And it eases some of my guilt_. 

Some of it. 

"And now?" 

"It's too little too late." She sighed at the cliche. It was a cheap answer, but he didn't have a better one. "And it doesn't really matter. If I leave to fight against Voldemort, Theo won't get his cure. Blaise won't get his home back. Merlin only knows what will happen to you."

"But you still fantasize about rebellion?" 

"We always want what we can't have." He removed his gaze from her and retrained it on the blank wall before him. "But it's easier to change things from the inside, and for now, that means keeping my head down and doing what I'm told." _For the most part._

She wrung her wrists. He could only imagine the images she had conjured in her mind, the missing puzzle pieces she was trying to fit together. "Even when you know it's wrong?" she asked. 

Whatever sins she thought he'd committed, he could almost guarantee, the reality was much worse. 

He shook his head. If she could understand only one thing about him, this is what he'd choose for her to know. "It's not about what's right or wrong. It's an act of self-preservation, following orders, because if I have to wake up every day to face Voldemort and then weigh the worth of my life and my friends' lives against the lives of strangers, I'll unravel." He exhaled and rested his head in his hands, realizing the depth of her original assessment: _Have you ever thought of standing up to them?_

She was alive and learning magic by a stroke of good fortune. If Blaise hadn't been on Primrose Hill, if Fenrir Greyback had kicked the door in instead of knocking, if she'd burned her house down just a day or two later, she might as well have been wearing a collar, serving tea to his parents at the Manor or cleaning the blood from Bellatrix's boots. 

She didn't care about his personal convictions, or at least, she wasn't asking about them. 

_Why isn't my existence worth defending?_ That was what she wanted to know. And he didn't have an adequate answer, so he gave his best attempt. "I'm already fraying."

He should've known that wouldn't be good enough for her. It wasn't good enough for him either. 

"But, the cure for Theo, you said-"

"I know what I said." Eurydice pecked Draco's wrist again, drawing a drop of crimson blood. He sighed and scribbled an affirmative response to his mother. He watched the owl disappear back into the downpour, realizing too late that he'd forgotten to cast the Impervius Charm on the letter. "You can't dive headfirst into a revolution. And finding Theo a cure for his blood malediction is not the same thing as overturning a government or defeating a god." 

"Bravery looks different on everyone, every day. Some days, it's smuggling illegal books or searching for an elusive cure or fighting on the battlefield," she whispered. _Salazar, was she capable of speaking in a tone that didn't sound condescending?_ "Sometimes it's just waking up in the morning."

"I'm not interested in bravery. I'm a _Slytherin_ ," he argued, though he knew she had no idea what that meant. "My priority is keeping my friends alive. I'll break as many rules as I have to for them. The rest of the world can fend for themselves or die trying. I truly could not care less." 

She rested her head on her knees. He examined his ink-stained hands, avoiding her gaze. The bedsprings creaked beneath him as he shifted his weight. On the street below them, a car raced through the rain, honking as it passed his window. He refused to break first, even as the ticking of the clock of the wall crescendoed, dissonant with his heartbeat. Did they not teach basic conversation skills in Muggle schools? He had spoken; now it was her turn, and although his declaration hadn't left much room for discussion, she could always bid him adieu and take her leave. 

Finally, she spoke. "Hypothetically, what would make you change your mind?" 

He turned to face her and leaned away, putting some distance between them. "What does that mean?"

She shrugged. That infuriating, manipulative innocence was evident in every curve, line, and edge on her face. "It's just a question." 

"To what degree will I allow my friends to be beaten and tortured until I take action? Is that what you meant?" 

She shifted her gaze so she was staring out the window, at the rain. "I can't help it if that's how you interpreted the question." 

He pushed himself off the bed. He hated this: the sight of her—a Muggle-born— with her bare feet on his furniture, close enough to him that she could reach out and grasp his shoulder. The girl who dared to ask and he who deigned to answer. And every damn time he tried to set boundaries, she edged closer and closer to the precipice. "What are you even doing in here? If you didn't want an apology, why did you follow me?" 

"I was trying to be kind. And I wanted answers." She recoiled, her lips curling into a frown as she slid off the bed. "Not all of us have ulterior motives. Not all of us shift our loyalties to our own advantage."

He ran a hand through his hair, causing it to stick up in every direction. No, this wasn't right. She wasn't meant to be here, in his bedroom, speaking rationally and calmly and making him question every decision he'd made for the past three years. 

Because every decision he'd made had led him here. He was exhausted and his friends were hurting and most days he wanted to curl up on his bed and never wake up. But they were alive. They were all alive. _He'd_ done that, and she had the nerve to force him to doubt that. 

He'd earned the right to come undone every once in a while. 

If only she _fucking_ knew. He clenched and unclenched his hand around his wand. 

"I'm not going to pretend that I know this world or your circumstances better than you do," she said. _That's the first sensible thing she's said since she arrived._ "But you'll never see the road out of this hell if you keep your head buried in the sand."

"So what do you suggest I do, Granger?" 

"I don't know," she gasped, throwing her arms in the arm. "I don't know, because no one tells me anything, and you seem more concerned with keeping your secrets and keeping Voldemort in power than doing anything worthwhile."

"Says the one who sits on the floor practicing first-year spells and elementary level potions," he said. His blood warmed, the walls closed in, and Hermione was much too close to him for his liking. "If everyone would stop fighting me or questioning every damn step I take, and just trust me, then maybe you'll see that I know what I'm doing," he seethed. "I'm the one who-" He cut himself off and fell silent. 

"That's exactly what I'm talking about!" she said, curling her fingers into fists. "You censor yourself when you think you're saying too much, because you- you don't think I can handle it, or because _you_ don't trust _me._ " She shuffled her fingers through her hair, finally taking a step away from him, a hurt expression on her face. "Theo and Blaise trust you," she said, as if she'd only just registered what he'd said. "I trust you."

"Well," said Draco, already beginning to turn on the spot. She might have been confined to their apartment, but Draco was still free to travel where he wished, when he wished. "You certainly do an excellent job of pretending otherwise." Without giving her a chance to retort, he Apparated to Kensington, leaving Hermione alone in his bedroom. 

Pansy knocked over her ceramic mug when Draco landed in her living room. He repaired it before she could scold him. She jumped to her feet and took one, two, three steps back, not bothering to clean up the spilled tea. "What are you doing?" she asked, clutching her novel to her chest.

 _Serves you right, doesn't it?_ he thought. _Considering the number of times you've shown up in my apartment unannounced._

Instead, he said, "I'm not angry with you," he told her. 

Her eyes widened. "Is everyone okay? Is Theo-"

"Everyone's fine," he said. "No one blames you." 

"So why are you here?" Her eyes were red, her blouse wrinkled, her lipstick smeared. A line of pimples dotted her forehead and the pages of her novel were folded and torn, like she'd taken to destroying the book rather than read it. 

Draco hadn't left his flat with an agenda. He only wanted to be rid of Hermione, but in that instant, upon seeing Pansy so fearful and exhausted, he knew he was there for a reason. "I'm going to put a stop to this." 

Pansy stood and backed away from him, pressing herself flush against the wall. "You shouldn't- you can't tell me things like this." 

He shook his head and advanced toward her. "Please, Pansy-"

"No." She planted her hands on his chest and lowered her head. "Whatever you're doing with Theo, whoever that girl that Fenrir saw at your house is, all of the secrets you've told me and then made me forget— please, you have to keep it all far away from me." 

"I can make it stop," he told her, reaching for her hand. "Just say the word. You know I can put an end to all of this." He traced his thumb over a purple bag under her eye. 

She grabbed his hand and pulled it away from her face, taking a step back. She reached for her wand and tried to force it into Draco's hands. "Make me forget." 

He folded his arms behind his back. "I won't."

She shoved his chest and he stumbled backward. "You've done it before. I know you have." She held out her wand, her eyes begging him to do what needed to be done. "I won't be responsible for whatever Voldemort does to punish you next time." She shook her head. "Draco, I can't." 

"I told you, no one blames you." He squeezed her shoulders, forcing her to look him in the eye. Up close, her pale skin looked patchy and dry, but her eyes, though they were glassy with unshed tears, were bright and fierce as ever. 

"He keeps asking for more," she said, rubbing her hands over her neck. Draco's knuckles whitened as he tightened his grip. "His hold over us keeps getting tighter." Her voice cracked. 

Draco dragged his hands down the length of her arm. "I won't let him hurt you. Pansy, you must know by now that I'd do anyth-"

"You can't do everything. You can't stop everything," she said. "You can't keep trying to sacrifice yourself for me or Theo or Blaise while we watch the rest of the world burn."

"I'm- it's not-" he stuttered, tripping over words he couldn't find. Words he wasn't sure even existed. How could he argue with that? It was easier to think himself infallible, to blame the circumstances than to admit there was another way; a better way. 

He'd rather take a _Crucio_ than admit that Hermione Granger—a Muggle-born—was right. And yet, she was. The two of them— Hermione and Pansy— had spent all of five minutes in the same room, and they somehow still had managed to gang up on him, albeit from seemingly opposite angles. 

He took a deep breath. 

Hermione had said he needed to be bolder. This was the last— the only— move he could make. The one thing he had that Voldemort would never be able to take from him. The one thing Voldemort wanted from him. 

And yet, he was still asking for permission to make the first move. 

"You're not responsible for my actions," he insisted. Maybe if he spoke the lie enough times, it would become true. 

"No, you're only asking me to make your decisions for you," she bit out, stepping away from his touch. "Decisions," she added, "that would be entirely selfish for me to make." He opened his mouth to retort, but she spoke before he could get a word in edgewise. "I know you'd be losing more than you'd gain." 

He shook his head. "If I do this, it's not going to be for me." She licked her chapped lips and tucked her chin to her chest. "Think about it?" he asked.

"I don't have to," she said at once. "Hold onto your trump card for a little bit longer. We might need it for something bigger, sooner than you think." 

He let out a long, slow exhale. Bravery looks different on everyone, Hermione had told him. For now, Draco's steadfastness would be his bravery.

He gave her a peck on the cheek and Disapparated, landing unsteadily in his own bedroom. Hermione was gone, and in some strange, disquieting way, her absence felt far weightier than her presence. He sat at his desk and began writing furiously in his notebook, realizing, as he wrote, that perhaps he had been dealt a better hand than he originally thought. 


	14. the carnation

The next morning, Hermione sat at the kitchen table, popping pomegranate seeds into her mouth. 

The irony was not lost on her, nor was it lost on Draco, judging by the smirk plastered on his face as he walked through the front door, a bulging tote bag slung over his shoulder. 

She ran her tongue over the seed in her mouth and punctured it with her tooth, savoring the sour explosion of flavor on her tastebuds. "What?" she asked defensively, shifting in her seat to avoid his patronizing smile.

He shrugged; his smirk widened. "It's freezing in here." With a dramatic flourish, he waved his wand and the windows fell closed. 

Hermione pursed her lips and looked wistfully at the warped glass. "I have to get some fresh air somehow." Between her parents, the police, and the Death Eaters looking for her, she knew she couldn't walk out the front door, but that didn't mean there wasn't a way out. They could teleport. _Apparate,_ she corrected herself. Surely, Blaise could take her to a deserted beach or forest for an hour or two of fresh air. Better yet, they could teach her to Apparate. It would free them for all of the hours they spent _babysitting_.

She looked down at her wand. Apparition was too advanced for her. Beyond the basics, Hermione was struggling to master any spells, let alone spells that involved the complete deconstruction and reconstruction of the human body. Heeding Draco's advice, she hadn't asked Theo to teach her any dueling spells, but neither Draco nor Blaise had offered to assist in that department. Between the stagnation and the spontaneous bursts of magic that erupted from her fingers, her progress was slight. 

Not to mention the fact that they rarely allowed her out of their sight. 

"Find anything?" he asked, nodding toward the notebook in her hand. She'd been pouring over Draco's transcription of the banned herbology book in every spare moment, but hadn't been able to find anything related to curing blood diseases. 

She shook her head. "I've read it three times," she said. "Half of it doesn't make sense to me. I haven't the faintest clue what Murtlap or Dittany is, anyway." She shoved the notebook away from her. It slid across the table to where Draco stood. "Have Blaise take a look instead."

Draco picked up the book. He thumbed through the pages before encoding it with a tap of his wand, and pocketed it. He was dressed casually, in a fraying black hoodie and jeans: a steep departure from his usual attire of a black suit and tie, or a blazer at the very least. He'd changed clothes since last night, when he'd Apparated out of his bedroom in a huff, which raised no fewer than a dozen questions in Hermione's head.

"Have you learned anything about why my magic doesn't seem to be contained to-"

At the sound of Draco's entrance, Blaise poked his head around the corner from the hallway. Hermione's question went unfinished and unanswered. "Where have you been all night?" Blaise asked.

Draco shuffled his fingers through his hair, which now brushed the tips of his ears in scraggly strands. "Pansy's," he said. Despite Hermione and Blaise's incredulous looks, he offered no further information.

Blaise's lips parted. Hermione froze, her pomegranate-stained fingers halfway to her mouth. "All night?" she asked. The words sounded more accusatory than she'd intended; it wasn't any of her business, but a dull ache still unfolded in her chest.

_Had she finally pushed him too far?_

His gaze fell on her. Those mercurial eyes looked more like silver than grey today. He shifted the tote back to his other shoulder and allowed his arms to hang loosely at his sides. He shrugged. "Most of the night. I came home for an hour at around midnight. Then I ran some errands, and then I walked back." 

She didn't want to imagine what he meant by _errands_ , but she hoped it included finding a way around Voldemort's hold on Pansy's mind. Hermione wouldn't have minded some female companionship. Despite what most of her friends at school said, there was, in fact, such a thing as too much testosterone.

Blaise waved his arms, demanding Draco's attention. "Did you _tell_ Pansy?"

Draco leaned against the counter, hoisting the tote bag further up his shoulder. "She knew something's up."

"That doesn't mean-" Blaise rubbed a hand over his cropped hair, then pressed his knuckles to his mouth. "Why do you not seem at all concerned about this? Greyback could kill the four of us like _that_ if he wanted to." He snapped his fingers for emphasis. "The next time Voldemort looks into her mind-"

"He'll see Pansy's suspicions," Draco confirmed. "Just like last time."

"And he'll send Greyback, or Bellatrix-"

"No, he won't." Draco's voice was steady and unyielding as a mountain.

"Even your hubris can't be so big that you can't see-" 

Hermione's shoulders tensed as she resisted the urge to cover her ears and cower at their rising voices.

"Pansy knows there's a girl that means something to me— to us. Greyback saw a girl in my shower and undoubtedly reported that back to Voldemort. All anyone knows is that there's a Muggle girl, with red hair, who looks nothing like Granger and is apparently having sex with me," Draco said, straightening his shoulders and lifting his chin with each word. 

Hermione scoffed as she shoveled another handful of pomegranate seeds into her mouth. _Exceptionally proud of yourself for a ruse that occurred completely by accident,_ she remarked to herself. 

"Without any evidence that we're hiding a stray, Pansy just looks jealous," Draco continued, shooting a glare in Hermione's direction, "and the Death Eaters will leave us to go about our business." 

"For now," Hermione muttered.

"'For now' is all I'm worried about," he said, and looked around the room. "Where's Theo?" 

"St. Mungo's," said Blaise. 

Draco's expression darkened. "He'll drive himself mad if he keeps going this often."

Blaise lifted his shoulders and turned away. "It hasn't yet."

"It will when they finally tell him he only has six months to live," he said, a bitter edge slicing into his tone. 

Blaise looked over his shoulder at Draco and paused. Hermione could have sworn she saw his bottom lip tremble. "You still believe Voldemort will save him?" 

Draco showed no hesitation. "Theo isn't going to die." 

"That wasn't my question." 

"It's the only answer that matters." He didn't allow Blaise to perpetuate the conversation and turned his attention to Hermione. He pinched a couple of pomegranate seeds from her bowl. "Careful not to eat too many, Persephone." 

Hermione scowled at the bowl of fruit before her. "I'm already trapped here indefinitely, so it can't do much more harm," she said, flinching as she spoke. She hadn't meant to sound ungrateful. If she'd been talking to Theo or Blaise, she might've apologized for her tone, but in her experience, Draco had proved himself incapable of graciously accepting apologies. "Besides, unlike Hades, you have not been subtle about your distaste for me, so the parallels don't appear to hold up." 

"I'd like to think I was at least a little bit subtle," he said. "Are you still angry at me?" 

Her expression softened, but she felt heat rising up the back of her neck. "Only a little bit." 

He extracted a thick tome from his tote bag and slid it over the table to her. "Maybe this will put me back in your good graces," he said. She flipped open the book. _Standard Book of Spells Grade 1._ She raised her eyebrows as she skimmed the pages. She was already familiar with most of the spells: _Accio, Wingardium Leviosa, Protego,_ but there were a few new ones as well. It was not the prettiest tome: the spine was cracked, the pages were torn and falling out, but she knew it was likely a criminal offense to even possess the book. She held it close to her chest and offered him a small smile. 

Not forgiveness. Reconciliation. 

"Did any of your errands involve finding a cure for Theo or dealing with..." Blaise gestured to Hermione. 

Draco lowered himself into the chair beside her with new ease in his posture. She looked at him out of the corner of her eye, trying to deduce what had changed. "Yes. Did you miss the part when I gave her a spellbook, just now? By the end of the week, she'll be casting Killing Curses left and right, and we won't have to worry about her anymore." 

Hermione glared at him. He flicked her shoulder. "It was a joke, Granger." 

_Very funny_ , Hermione thought. She wasn't aware he knew how to make a joke. 

Blaise scoffed. "A book won't do anything to solve the fact that her magic is out of control." 

"Lighten up, Zabini! My conversation with Pansy was... enlightening, shall we say?" He chuckled to himself as if this were a private joke. Neither Hermione nor Blaise laughed. 

He reached for another pomegranate seed. Hermione snatched the bowl away before he could take one. "Get your own," she said. 

"You said you weren't mad at me anymore," he pouted. 

"I said I was only a little bit angry with you. Give me another day or two." 

"I thought we'd been over this," Draco said. "If I were you, I'd stop picking fights with the person who pays for your food, water, and home." 

She shrugged and averted her gaze. "You're less intimidating without your suit and tie; I can't help it." She popped another seed in her mouth. "Besides, you still haven't told me how you finance that. For all I know, you make your living murdering puppies and harvesting fairy wings, in which case, I'd feel obligated to rebuke you anyway." 

A laugh bubbled from his lips; a real laugh. An unbridled and robust sound filled the room. "I can promise you, my work is not that exciting," Draco said, the hesitant sound of relief melting into his normal confidence. 

She frowned and ground her teeth. "You're evading the question, which means you have something to hide."

"It's not that simple." 

Hermione shrugged, keeping her eyes trained on his feet. Even after the outfit change, he still wore those blasted black boots, shined so thoroughly that Hermione could practically see her reflection in them. "Occam's razor." 

He cocked his head and planted his hands on the table, leaning over her. "Just because I don't tell you everything, doesn't mean I'm hiding something." 

"It's an uneven battle then." He narrowed his eyes before reaching across the table to pull the book back. Hermione slapped her palm over the hardcover and cradled it to her chest, still holding her wand with her right hand. "This is mine now," she said. "Since I apparently need all the help I can get." 

"Your words, not mine." His features relaxed and his voice fading back into a teasing lilt. 

"Remember when you told me you liked it when I fought back?" Hermione asked. "But then you ran away from me yesterday." Something dark flashed in his eyes, but his predatory smile didn't waver. "You're happy to challenge me when it comes to magic because you know how to control it. You know how to beat me." She leaned back in her chair and folded her arms over her chest. "A battle of wits is different."

"Believe it or not, I actually like debating with you, until you try to defame my character," he said. The sheen in his eyes still refused to dim. "And for the record, I didn't run away, but I'll forgive you for saying so if you can disarm me." 

It felt to Hermione like a trap. He was incapable of speaking directly, of showing his true motivations, but— if nothing else— this was a chance to prove her capabilities to herself.

Reluctantly, she stood, keeping her eyes on Draco's wand as she lifted her own. Draco traced the correct motion in the air. Hermione repeated it once, mouthing the incantation to herself. She steadied herself, feeling the arches of her bare feet against the wood floor. She tightened her fingers around her wand and inhaled, allowing the power to build in her chest and flow to her fingertips. If she were in a real battle, she wouldn't have this endless time to prepare herself, but if Draco was feeling benevolent, she'd be remiss not to take advantage of this brief bout of kindness.

She drew the sharp right angle in the air. " _Expelliarmus_." Draco's wand briefly left his grasp, but he caught it before it flew away, returning a non-verbal spell. Hermione's wand flew across the kitchen. 

She stared at her empty hands. "If you had told me what you were going to do-"

Draco shook his head. "That isn't how it works in the real world. Go again."

Blaise returned her wand. She lifted it, tightening her grip even more, in case Draco repeated his previous move. " _Expelliarmus_."

Rather than the disarming spell, a jet of scorching air shot out from Hermione's wand. She flexed her hand, letting the wood clatter to the floor. Draco recoiled as Hermione scrambled to collect it. Before she could reach it, Draco trapped it with the bottom of his shoe and summoned it to his hand, leaving Hermione on her knees, glaring up at him. 

He extended a hand with a blank expression. She brushed a strand of hair out of her face and got to her feet, ignoring his offer of assistance. 

"Oh God," she said, eyeing the red patch of skin on Draco's chin. She lifted her fingers but retracted them before she made contact with his skin. "Draco, I'm so sorry." 

"Serves me right for complaining about the temperature in here." Gingerly, he stroked the blistering skin as it blossomed into an angry, crimson welt on his otherwise pristine porcelain face. He flinched and glared at his fingers as if they were the culprit. "It'll fade." 

"I thought I was getting better at controlling it."

"You are." He held her wand to his eye-level, examining the ridges. "You did the movement right; it should have worked. It might be the wand's fault. Normally, you'd go to Ollivander's and he'd find the wand that chooses you, but given your situation, our options are limited." He lifted the wand and healed the blister on his chin. "It's the trickier spells that'll give you more trouble."

"Seems like it works fine for you," she said, trying her best to keep her frustration and envy from seeping into her tone. 

"It is technically mine." He passed it back to her. "There are ways to gain a wand's allegiance, but that wand is an eyesore anyway. Work through that book while I'm gone. If it doesn't go well, we can find you a prettier one." 

Hermione frowned at the wand in her hand. It was a hand-me-down, but it was one of the only material items that belonged to her and she'd grown fond of it. Though it was a bit temperamental at times, it generally worked fine. Even if it hadn't, she certainly hadn't expected Draco to be the one volunteering to help her find a new one. 

_What did Pansy say to him?_

"Why are you suddenly being so nice to me?" she asked, the question spilling from her mouth before her mind could convince her to stay quiet. 

"This isn't me being nice," he said. "This is me changing my teaching style in hopes of actually making some progress with you." 

She shook her head and snorted in disbelief. 

As she turned back to the spellbook, Theo walked through the front door. He was dragging his right foot behind him in a slight limp, but had a bright smile on his face. "Good morning, everyone!" 

Draco's eyes bounced to Theo's leg, then to Blaise. He neglected to mention Theo's new difficulty with walking, a fact Hermione found odd, but Draco spoke before she could ask if he was okay. "I need to talk to you two," he said brusquely. Hermione palmed the table and began to gather her belongings, but Draco waved her back down. "In my room." 

She bit her lip as she sank back into the chair. Flipping to the first page of her new spellbook, she lifted her wand, determined to tame it. She studied her fingers. Her fraying cuticles, the callous forming on the pads of her right fingertip, the unfamiliar curve of her joints. These were the hands of a stranger. She could only hope that one day, she'd recognize herself again. 

"If you're going to do that out here, get away from the window, will you?" Theo warned, voice and eyes weary. Draco's head jerked up and darted between Theo and Hermione. "If Voldemort's suspicious, Greyback won't be the last one he sends our way." 

She tucked the spellbook away and pulled out a Muggle novel as the boys walked away. She jerked her head up when she realized she'd forgotten something.

"Hey, Malfoy," she said. He stopped in his tracks and looked over his shoulder at her. "Thank you. For the book. And the food. And the housing." 

He lifted one side of his mouth, the closest thing to a genuine smile she'd seen from him, bar the laughs he'd had at her expense. "You're welcome, Persephone." Hermione ducked her head as her cheeks flushed. 

When she looked up, she heard the slam of Draco's door. Theo and Blaise had disappeared with him. She forced out a breath, lost so deep in her thoughts that she didn't notice the window open of its own accord. 

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

"She's out of control," Draco said, once he had cast _Muffliato_ on his closed bedroom door. He pulled out two Muggle newspapers from his tote bag and set them on the bed. The front pages referenced two different unexplained house fires: one in Richmond and one in Teddington. "But this should keep the Death Eaters from looking too much into her." Theo and Blaise stepped closer, reading the headlines. No casualties, but virtually nothing of value could be salvaged from either fire. 

"You did this?" Theo asked, eyes wide. He skimmed his fingers over the paper. "You burned down innocent families' homes to put the Death Eaters off of a trial we aren't even sure they're following?" 

"It was us or them," Draco insisted, feeling his resolve fracture. 

"Not everyone is an enemy." Theo clenched his jaw and jabbed a finger at the black and white photographs between them. "Not everyone is an adversary that we need to cut down in order to get ahead. There were plenty of other routes you could have-"

"No one was home, the houses are insured," Draco interrupted. When Theo's expression didn't soften, Draco continued, irritated. "They're in Teddington and Richmond for fuck's sake. They'll be fine." Theo only glared harder. "Will you stop looking at me like that if I promise to never do it again?" 

Theo dropped his eyes and rubbed the back of his neck. " _Never_ ," he repeated. "You'll never do that, or anything to exploit innocent people for our benefit." 

He couldn't promise that, and he had half a mind to send Theo out of the room if he couldn't handle what Draco was about to tell them. "Not unless I have a really good reason," Draco amended. 

Theo conceded with a feeble nod. It was a small victory for Draco. Any victory was rare these days, so he counted Theo's submission as a great and terrible success.

Blaise scanned one of the papers and let out a low whistle. "These people are loaded. Did you snag anything before you blew the place up?" Theo elbowed him in the ribs. Blaise dropped the paper and lifted his hands in mock surrender. "I'm just saying if Malfoy brought me, we might be able to afford some steak dinners every once in a while, instead of Chinese takeout and boxed pasta." 

Draco sighed. What was done was done. He'd said time and time again that he would do whatever it took to protect Theo, Blaise, and Pansy, whether or not they liked it. It was a courtesy for him to include them, but he'd do a hell of a lot more than burn down two millionaire's homes if it meant the four of them would live to see another day. Draco shoved his hands in his pockets, forcing a composed facade over his face as he rocked back on his heels. "If you're not satisfied with the caliber of your living situation, I can always ask Voldemort for a raise, but you know-"

Theo rolled his eyes and crumpled up the newspaper in his hand. "You know that's not what he meant," he said. His eyes flicked to Draco's left wrist. "In the future, if you're concerned about Hermione's lack of control, you could help out with her training, instead of committing arson to retroactively cover her nonexistent tracks." 

"I don't care whether or not she can control herself," Draco said. A smile played along his lips. He couldn't deny the pleasure he felt from his own cryptic words. "As long as I control her." 

Blaise scrubbed a hand over his face, stifling a soft moan. "What does that even mean?"

"She's going to be the one who kills him." He clamped his fingers over one fist, feeling the phantom of Hermione's hand under his, the power flooding through her veins, overflowing into the air around them. 

Blaise and Theo exchanged skeptical glances. Draco cocked a pale eyebrow. Theo dodged Draco's stare, kicking his bad foot against the base of Draco's bed. 

"She'll destroy herself in the process," Blaise said. 

Draco shrugged. Pansy and Hermione had both told him to make a decision, to fight for something. He'd made his choice. "Better her than us." 


	15. the narcissus

Every time Draco walked these halls, they became less and less familiar. He followed the same path that he always did: through the front door, down the main hallway to his mother's favorite parlor. A path he'd taken countless times, and yet, he still felt like an exile in his own home. 

Clusters of Death Eaters lined the corridor, pretending not to stare as the Malfoy heir passed them. The whispers of his name echoed in the empty hallway. Draco kept his head forward. 

When the crowd thinned, a rat scurried across the floor in front of him, followed by Nagini. Draco furrowed his brow and followed the snake until it disappeared down the stairs, into the cellars. _Wormtail?_ Draco shook his head. It wasn't his problem. When he wasn't working, the things that happened in this Manor were none of his concern. He reset his path. 

Alice Perry stood sentry outside the door. Like a ghost, the blonde Mudblood servant seemed to haunt him wherever he went. As he approached her, she cleared her throat and smoothed the front of her uniform. 

"Is my mother here yet?" he asked. 

Her throat bobbed as she swallowed, and he narrowed his eyes. "No, sir," she said and cleared her throat again. "Not yet." 

He nodded and gestured toward the door. She searched his face, drawn to the scratch that Peter Pettigrew left on his face. He set his mouth in a thin line and hoped she would assume he'd received it fighting a dragon, or in hand-to-hand combat with a dangerous member of the Order. "Well?" he asked. 

Her eyes widened and she reached for the handle to allow him inside. He brushed past her, entered the parlor, and paused at the sight before him. His mother's favorite parlor, the crown jewel of the Manor, had been stripped down to its bones. All of the art that used to hang on the wall had been moved to the floor, covered in sheets of canvas. The wallpapers was scoffed, the tile floor cracked, and the bricks in the fireplace had been torn up. 

He peeked behind the canvas sheet closest to him to find a portrait of his grandfather. Even sleeping in his frame, Abraxas Malfoy appeared imposing and severe. Much like Lucius, Abraxas kept his hair tied at the base of his neck, wore a ring on every finger, and possessed only the finest velvet and silk robes. Most of Draco's memories of Abraxas involved being chastised for stepping on his robes and tugging on his hair. His grandfather had never liked children, but he hadn't lived long enough to see Draco grow into an adult. 

Draco ran his knuckles down the side of his own jaw, then smoothed down his hair. It had grown out longer than he liked it, though it wasn't nearly as long as Lucius' yet. 

The parlor door creaked open. Draco dropped the canvas and scrambled to take three steps back, immediately feeling foolish. He hadn't done anything wrong. It was his family's house, after all. 

Narcissa greeted him with three kisses on the cheek, a hug that lasted just a moment too long, and a short, but stern, lecture about the importance of keeping in touch with one's mother. Draco did not remind her that he made an appearance at the Manor five times a week, for work. 

"Your father is helping Bellatrix with something in the cellar, but he'll be up in a moment," she said, pulling out her chair. The rest of the room may have been in disarray, but the circular table, with its delicate tablecloth and shiny table settings, was neat and perfect. 

_Great._ He hoped his smile didn't look too grim. He sat beside her, folding his napkin in his lap as another servant appeared to pour their tea and deliver their scones. 

"Are you redecorating?" Draco gestured to the covered frames and statues that lined the wall. 

Narcissa stared at her napkin as she folded it in her lap. "The Dark Lord has ordered us to remove it all." 

"All of it?" Draco looked around the room. Only one portrait remained: the stationary Malfoy portrait that had been done when Draco was fifteen, placed on the wall with a Permanent Sticking Charm. "Why?" 

"The Dark Lord only wants depictions of himself and his most faithful servants. He's ordered new likenesses to be taken in the coming months." She lifted a thin eyebrow. Draco took a long sip of his tea; he knew exactly what she wanted to ask. He wouldn't break her heart by telling her no, he would not sit for a painting as a show of his servitude to Voldemort. 

He was ridding the world of art, books, Mudbloods. What would be left after Voldemort finished erasing all of the Wizarding World's culture and history? 

_I'll be here,_ Draco reminded himself. _And Pansy, and Blaise, and Theo._ The only things that mattered. 

The two made small talk as Narcissa nibbled on her scone. Draco waited on the edge of his seat, taut as a notched arrow, waiting for the moment he desperately hoped would never arrive. 

But, as was the case with inevitabilities, it did. Lucius Malfoy seemed to float into the room, his long black robes billowing behind him. He moved with the intensity of a shark: direct and intentional, bypassing any distractions to go straight for his prey.

Draco stood while his father bent down to kiss Narcissa's cheek. 

"Draco," Lucius said as he shook Draco's hand. 

"Hello, Father." It took all of his efforts not to flinch under his father's eyes. 

Lucius snapped his fingers. The Mudblood approached and placed a steaming teapot before him. "How is London?" he asked, taking a large gulp of tea without waiting for it to cool down. 

"Quiet, lately. Until Greyback stopped by," Draco said. He sat up straighter, trying to take up more space at the small table. He didn't want to dwell on the Greyback incident. Any feeble explanation Draco could offer would only raise more questions. "How is work?"

"Don't get him started," Narcissa said. She rested a delicate hand over Lucius' much larger one. "I'm not sure it's appropriate to hear about murder and torture while we're eating." She summoned one of the servants to replace their empty teapots. 

"It's not murder and torture," Lucius said, interlacing his fingers with hers. Draco was almost sure that if he asked any of the Muggle-borns in the Manor, they would say it _was_ , in fact, murder and torture. "Think of it as population control."

Draco watched the servant as she lifted each individual teapot with both hands onto her cart. Through the thin white fabric of her shirt, he could see her muscles strain as she lifted the fresh pots of water onto the table. He swallowed. The pots could not have weighed more than a pound and a half. _What was Bellatrix feeding them?_

Draco feigned impatience with an exaggerated huff. He tapped his wand against his own teapot and watched it refill with water. The ease with which he performed the spell reminded him how superfluous and self-indulgent it was of Voldemort to keep the servants around. They were wizards. They could open doors and summon food and do their own laundry with a wave of a wand, yet they still repressed another being's magic and forced them to perform menial and humiliating tasks by hand, to keep up pure-bloods' fragile illusion of an antiquated position of power. 

"Why don't you take one home?" Narcissa asked. 

Draco's fingers tightened around the delicate china. He wrenched his attention away from the servant and back to his mother. Hot tea dripped over the side of his cup as he set it down, hands shaking. "Excuse me?" She'd mistaken his interest in the servant's actions as interest for the servant herself. 

Narcissa set her own cup down and leaned forward, folding her manicured hands on the table. "I worry about you. And Blaise, and Theo," she added as an afterthought. "Three boys living on your own. It might be helpful to have one of the Mudbloods around to cook and clean."

Draco craned his neck to look at the attendant by the door. She hadn't moved. She stared, unblinking and unfocused, at the wall before her, but the skin around her lips had whitened. "Do you think we are incapable of keeping ourselves fed and bathed?" he tried to joke, but his voice broke at the end of his sentence. 

She lifted her hands and leaned back in her chair. "No, no. I only thought it would be nice to have some help. I know how busy you all are." The tips of Narcissa's ears glowed red and she hid her nose behind her cup as she took another sip. "Or, if you're looking for another kind of... female companionship..."

A wave of vertigo crashed around him, submerged him. He closed his eyes and dug his fingernails into his thighs. "Mother," he warned, flinching at the sound of his own voice. Ordering the Muggle-borns about the Manor was one thing, but bringing one home would be inexcusable.

She shrugged but looked relieved. Voldemort often offered some of the younger, more attractive Mudbloods to the Death Eaters as concubines. Draco wondered if Lucius had ever taken him up on that offer. The thought made him push his scone away from him. Lucius's face was a stone facade, giving nothing away. 

"I wouldn't want to take any of the Dark Lord's property away from the Manor." He looked at the row of removed art. "Especially in the middle of such a big undertaking." 

Narcissa waved a hand. "Please, it's easier to find Mudblood servants than house-elves these days. Pansy told me it's almost possible for you two to keep track of them all. Although, if you'd prefer a house-elf, we can arrange that." She eyed the blonde servant in the corner of the room. He might've taken her just so he could stuff her in the closet and never have to see her or that bloody scar ever again. "They might be less temperamental." 

Draco lifted his cup in agreement. 

He could have sworn he saw Alice roll her eyes out of the corner of his eye. 

"That might change soon, though," Narcissa continued. Draco drew his attention back to her. "Professor Snape and Professor Slughorn are working on a docility potion." 

_Docility potion_. What a diplomatic way to put it. In the first few years after Voldemort's rise to power, the Death Eaters had used the Imperious Curse to keep the Mudbloods in line, but it soon became tedious. The spell kept them obedient, but it prevented them from performing any tasks they didn't have direct orders to complete. After a while, the Death Eaters gave up altogether, relying on draconian punishments and tyrannical humiliation to subjugate the Mudbloods. Once the Death Eaters established a routine, it was easy to break the Mudbloods' wills.

For some, the novelty and excitement of torturing and punishing a new servant until they were completely obedient had worn off after a year or two. Hence, the need for a _docility potion_. Draco knew that others— namely Bellatrix— would never tire of the thrill of breaking them. Of seeing them willingly fall to their knees for the first time. 

"I mean, honestly," his mother said, "we've been at this for almost twenty years; we should have figured this out by now. But maybe when they're finally housebroken, you'll change your mind." 

Draco hid his wince by pretending his tea scalded his tongue. 

Lucius, who had been eerily silent throughout their exchange, finally spoke. "I've heard you found a Muggle girl," he mused. Draco fixed his eyes on his cup. "I completely understand, of course. Young men must have their indulgences. I only hope you haven't become... sympathetic."

Draco lifted his head and stared into his father's eyes. Those grey eyes were all too familiar. He saw them every time he looked in the mirror. "Of course not," he assured him. "I pity them, and Mudbloods. But I know my place, and I know my duty is to put them in theirs." He recited the words easily. He'd said it so many times. He knew exactly where to place the emphasis, where to take a breath, where to pause for dramatic effect. His father had never questioned him. 

Until now. Lucius cocked his head and took another sip of his tea. His hand looked large, dangerous, holding Narcissa's delicate china teacup. Draco mirrored his father, careful not to let his eyes wander. 

"People are beginning to talk," Lucius said. 

"Let them."

Narcissa laid a hand on Lucius' shoulder. He brushed it off and raised his voice. "If the Malfoys are to remain at the Dark Lord's right hand, we must continue to serve him-"

"I do serve him," Draco said through gritted teeth. "I may not be in his front lines, but that does not change my allegiance. I am committed, just as you are-"

"Then take the Mark." Lucius slammed his hand on the table, causing the teacups to rattle. Narcissa jumped, and milky tea spilled down the front of her white blouse. 

"Yelling won't convince him," Narcissa muttered, waving her wand over her shirt. 

Draco clenched his jaw as his eyebrows pulled together. Lucius continued. "Neither has letting him run rampant for the past three years, drinking, and smoking, and fucking whatever he likes, like some common Mug-" 

"I told you, I'll take the Mark when I'm ready," Draco said, struggling to keep his voice even, out of both anger and fear. 

Lucius tossed his napkin over his half-eaten scone. "You've had years to prepare." His honeyed, composed tone had returned. "It's time." 

Before Draco could open his mouth to bite back a reply, Bellatrix threw the door open. "Lucius," she called. Her sing-song voice sounded like claws on a chalkboard to Draco. "The Dark Lord has requested your presence in the ballroom." 

Lucius kept his eyes on Draco, who kept his eyes on his empty teacup. "Of course, Bella." He stood, clapping Draco on the back. "I know you'll make me proud, son," he said and followed Bellatrix out of the room. 

Draco cleared his throat, looking up only after he heard the door close. "I suppose I'll get going as well." 

Narcissa wrapped him in another hug. He rested his cheek on the top of her head. "He only wants the best for you. I hope you know that." 

Draco nodded, inhaling the soft, familiar scent of her perfume. "I do." And he did. For all his faults and shortcomings, Lucius always protected the Malfoy name, and therefore, Draco, with all he had. 

"Come back?" Narcissa implored. "Same time next week? You don't come often enough. " 

_This is exactly why,_ he thought, glaring at the doorway. When he looked back at his mother, the edges of his heart melted at her wide eyes and bright smile. "Sure. See you next week." 

She wrapped him in a brief hug and pecked his cheek once more, before exiting the parlor, leaving him with only the sleeping portraits and the fading echoes of her heels on the tile. 

Draco exhaled. He ran a hand through his hair and wondered how a single conversation with his parents had left him feeling so breathless. He sighed as he turned back to the row of art. By the time he returned next week, it would all be gone; destroyed. His stomach rumbled; he hadn't finished his scone, but he didn't think it would stay down if he ate it now.

He lifted the canvas from a different painting, this one of Walburga Black. Draco certainly wouldn't miss the portrait of his grandmother, who always made sure to mention how much she disliked Draco's fair hair, but he was surprised to see it among the pile of paintings to be removed. He had a feeling Voldemort would have gotten along with Walburga. 

He replaced the canvas sheet. If he had known that his mother would offer one of the servants, he would have turned Hermione in, then taken her back to his flat— preferably after Bellatrix had thrown a curse or two her way; maybe then, she would be more grateful for his protection. Now that he'd vehemently denied the offer, he couldn't bring her to the Manor. Not to mention, she'd be collared upon arrival, and as far as Draco knew, the collars could only be removed after the wearer's death. 

If there were another way, Draco would have to get the Dark Mark to find out.

It was naive of him to think he'd held any real power; that he could outsmart Voldemort if he only played his cards right. He gripped his left forearm. Voldemort had forced his hand. He would hold out for as long as he could, but Draco would need to find another way to save himself. To save them all. 

He dragged his hand along the intricate golden molding on the parlor wall. He spent most of his time at home dreading returning to the Manor, but now that he was here, he didn't want to return back to the apartment. The allure of giving in, of submitting to Voldemort, of never having to make another decision, overwhelmed him. Here, at the Manor, he could escape the noise. There was no shortage of empty, echoing rooms. At his apartment, he couldn't get any peace and quiet. At the apartment, he was expected to lead. 

He dropped his hand and his head. He needed a long, hot shower and a cigarette.

After making it only two steps out the door, a hand wrapped around his elbow, stopping him in his tracks. He spun around and found himself face to face with the blonde Muggle-born— Alice Perry. 

He jerked his arm out of her grip. "Do not touch your master with explicit permission," Draco snarled, pressing the tip of his wand into the base of her throat, just beneath her collar. 

She leaned into the wand, her jade eyes brightening. The urge to obey his commands had been beaten into her, but she was pushing back. "Why did you give him my name?"

Draco jabbed the wand into her flesh. Her lips tightened and her shoulders hitched, but she showed no other sign of pain. "I have no idea what you're talking about." 

She lifted her chin, keeping her eyes on the wand. Draco followed her gaze. 

_Chekhov's wand_ , he could picture Hermione saying. He removed the wand from her neck.

She took a step back and looked up and down the hallway. When she deemed the coast clear, she leaned closer. "I heard that... thing. The werewolf. He told the Dark Lord that you had a human girl named Alice Perry at your apartment." She took a step closer. Draco had to look down at her. He clenched his fists. "Why did you give him my name?" 

_Why did he give him her name?_ It was the first name that popped into his head. He should have said something else, something completely made up. Voldemort had never checked the Registry for Mudbloods that had already been captured, but if he ever became curious, it would be easy enough to find out that Alice Perry was enslaved at the Manor, and not taking hot showers with Draco.

He'd have to destroy the Registry that listed Alice Perry. And then add that to the long list of crimes he'd committed against Voldemort. 

No, not crimes. The long list of things he'd done to keep the ones he loved safe. No matter how many times Hermione, or Pansy, and now Alice Perry, tried to convince him otherwise, Draco refused to be the villain in his own story. 

He bent his neck so his nose hovered just above hers. "You belong to Lord Voldemort now, Mudblood," he sneered, smoothing his tie against his chest. "Everything you have belongs to him, including your name. So don't worry about what I do with it."

Alice—the servant, he corrected himself—wrinkled her nose, not at all perturbed by his use of the word _Mudblood_. 

"Take me with you." 

He scoffed. Maybe it had been a mistake to allow her to show her contempt so freely over the past few weeks. She felt far too much freedom voicing her opinion to him now. "No." 

"I heard your mother. She wants you to take one of us," she nearly panted. "Take me. Get me out of here." 

"No." He couldn't afford to hide another person in his flat. More so, how could he force Theo and Blaise to protect her? 

How could he subject Granger to looking at the cursed collar every day, reminding her of her place among the dregs of Wizarding society? She needed to focus on expanding and harnessing her powers. Alice would only distract her. 

"I'll tell him," she threatened. Draco's head jerked up as he once again looked down the hallway for any eavesdroppers. They should not have been having this conversation in the open. 

They shouldn't have been having it at all. 

"What makes you think he'll care?" He gnawed on the inside of his cheek. 

"I have a family," she said, rather than answering his question. "I have a little brother, and if Vol- the Dark Lord finds out you've been using me to lie to him, there's no telling what he'll do to them-" 

Draco waved his wand. Her mouth snapped closed and her hands went to her throat, then crept to her mouth as she struggled to find her voice. "How old are you? Seventeen? Eighteen years old?" 

She shook her head. Draco didn't know if that meant she was older or younger, but frankly, he didn't care. He closed the distance between them. Alice dropped whatever facade of bravery she'd been clinging to and stepped back, pressing herself against the wall. He dropped his voice to a whisper. "She's twenty-one, the girl in my apartment. She has a full scholarship to Cambridge. She spent the last two years tutoring disadvantaged kids and working at animal shelters. She has family and friends that she's worried about, and that worry about her. And a dog. She's told me that she planned to be a politician after she graduates. She's going to lead the fight against climate change, and she's dedicated to ending the prejudice against your kind." At this point, he was spouting bullshit, but Alice would never know. Draco removed the Silencing Spell. "Tell Voldemort about her," he dared her. "It just means you'll have another slave around here to keep you company, and one less person fighting for you on the outside." She rocked back onto her heels. He had to drive the point home. "She'll come here to be beaten and tortured and humiliated exactly the way you've been. You'll have to look at her every day, knowing you were the one who did it to her." 

He could see the fire die in Alice's eyes, just as he'd expected.

That tended to be humans' fatal flaw: the innate sense of altruism. More importantly, they were incapable of coping with guilt and shame. They were weak. And weakness always had a cost. 

Alice would pay by spending the rest of her life in captivity. "Don't bring it up again," he hissed, "or I'll have to pay a visit to that younger brother of yours." 

She blanched and blinked furiously. 

_Good_. 

Voldemort was not the only one to be feared around here. 

"Draco." 

Alice let out a squeak and sidestepped Draco, tucking her arms behind her. 

It was only Pansy. She held up a manilla folder. Draco watched as Alice scurried away, back into the parlor. "Scaring the help?" she teased. 

"She's not-" He rubbed a hand over her face. "I'll tell you eventually." He snatched the folder from her hand. 

"I will hold you to that." She nodded at the folder. "Dolohov gave me that this morning. A list of potential strays they're looking out for." She cleared her throat and looked up and down the hallway. "Apparently, there's been a series of unexplained fires across London, and the Death Eaters are looking into them." 

Draco's heart stopped. His fingers stilled over the folder and he lengthened his neck. Pansy soldiered on, lowering her voice. "I just thought you would like to see the list before I update the Registry." 

The list took up three whole sheets, front and back. _Salazar_. Either the Death Eaters were being very liberal in their searches, or there were far more Muggle-borns in England than Draco ever anticipated. As he scanned the pages of unrecognizable names, he couldn't help but wonder how many would be dead or enslaved in the next three days. 

With each name he read, Draco clutched the folder tighter. His breathing grew shallower and his toes curled in his boots. When he finished reading and rereading the first two pages, he forced his shoulders to relax. He was almost finished. They might be safe. She could be safe. 

But there, near the bottom of the final page, was another inevitability that Draco had ardently hoped wouldn't come to pass, written in black ink and monospaced lettering. 

Hermione Granger. 


	16. the marigold

It had been weeks since Hermione had set her home on fire, and yet she still felt the flames licking at her heels. 

After reading through the spellbook that Draco had gifted her, she decided the most logical step was to master the spells she'd unwittingly performed before advancing to anything new. She needed to light a few matches to prevent a wildfire. 

She traced the movement once more in the air and mouthed the incantation. _Incendio._ Simple enough. Her mouth curved around the word easily, but she couldn't force it to roll off her tongue. _Incendio._

Every time she blinked, the image of those golden flames appeared, seared into the back of her eyelids. And every time she involuntarily conjured the image, she thought of another precious keepsake from her childhood, lost forever. Tonight, it was her favorite teddy bear. The one her grandmother had gifted her on her seventh birthday; the last birthday she'd celebrated before her grandmother passed. 

Hermione tightened her fingers around the wand before she let it drop to the floor. She buried her face in her hands and spoke the word into her palms. " _Incendio._ " 

The word was so harmless without her wand. She clenched her hands into fists. She was in control. And even if something went wrong, Draco and Blaise were nearby, ready to stop any irreparable damage. 

She scooped up the wand and repositioned the torn dishrag in front of her. _You can do it_ , she told herself. She'd practiced _Aquamenti_ a thousand times, and any fire that her magic couldn't extinguish, the sink surely would. 

She lifted her wand and raised her free palm for balance— or at least, the illusion of balance. She squeezed her eyes shut. _You can do it. You're in control._ She opened her mouth.

"Any progress?" 

She released the tension in her eyes but kept them closed. She tossed her wand on the countertop and abandoned all hope of progressing that night. Draco. It was always Draco. 

Frustration rose in her like a setting storm. She clamped her hands over her ears and bit back a groan. "Just give me like two more minutes of peace and quiet." She planted her elbows on the counter, knowing fully well that once she voiced her wishes, the likelihood of Draco complying decreased exponentially. 

But rather than his low, husky drawl taunting her, she heard a soft grunt. Whirling around, she caught sight of Draco, bent over one knee, gripping the edge of the countertop.

"Oh, don't be so dramatic," she grumbled, tucking her wand in her pocket and slamming the spellbook closed. 

"I'm not," he said, clutching his chest as he righted himself. He took a deep breath, and looked at her, eyes wide. "Have you ever done that before?" 

"Done what?" She shifted her weight and shoved the dishrag away from her. She definitely had no more use for it tonight. 

He shook his head and took a step backward, his face had drained of what little color it had. "Asked someone to do something and they did it." 

"Yes, actually," she said, propping her fists on her hips. "Because believe it or not, Malfoy, most people are helpful and kind and listen when-" 

"Just this once," Draco interrupted, steepling his fingers underneath his nose, "will you give me the benefit of the doubt before you start with the snark? I might be able to help you." He folded his hands together like he was praying. 

She sighed and pressed the heels of her palms into her temple. "I don't know, Draco." But even as the words escaped her, she knew she was lying. The bus driver, the night of the fire had been adamant that she not be allowed on, until she ordered him to give her a ride. "Maybe," she amended. "Once or twice." 

He nodded and turned away, circling to the opposite side of the kitchen. 

"It was an accident," Hermione blurted. Her defenses rose like the tide, and suddenly, nothing was more important than making sure that Draco knew she would never purposefully take control over someone else. "Every time I did it, it was an accident. I don't even know how-" 

He stopped his pacing. "It's called the Imperius Curse. It was one of the Unforgivable Curses, back before Voldemort rose to power." He cracked his knuckles against the marble countertop. Hermione flinched at the noise. "Back then, performing one of those would you get locked away in Azkaban for life, so I guess in that respect, you're lucky the Ministry has been overthrown." 

He'd used that word before: _Azkaban_. She tucked it away to the ever-growing list of concepts she didn't know. She'd ask Theo about it later. 

"Then again," Hermione said. "If it hadn't, presumably I'd have been allowed to go to Hogwarts, and I'd probably have a better handle on my powers." 

Draco grunted his agreement as he moved to the kitchen table, massaging his forehead. Hermione sat beside him and placed her wand in front of her, just out of reach. 

"Does it hurt that bad?" Her voice rose an octave. Some of the spells she had cast were dangerous, but as far as she knew, she had never hurt anyone with magic. Just the thought of it made guilt cloud in her chest, as suffocating as the smog from that wretched fire.

"The spell doesn't hurt. It's the resisting that's painful. Forcing yourself to stay in control, it feels like your brain is ripping itself out of your head."

Hermione brushed her fingers across her ears, unsure of what that feeling would even entail. "What does the spell feel like?" 

He stared at her wand. "It's the best fucking high you'll ever feel." He sighed and dragged his hand down his face. "Which means the crash fucking sucks. Even if it was only for a moment." 

She cocked her head, feeling something like curiosity deluge her. Apprehensively, she asked, "Can you try it on me?" 

Draco's head jerked up. He flinched at the sudden movement. "No." 

"I can handle it."

"I didn't say you couldn't, I just..." He held up his hands, feigning helplessness. 

She blinked. Draco had never passed up on the chance to use dark magic on her. It often felt to her like she'd become his personal plaything, to be used by him whenever he wished, solely for the sake of his own amusement. "Please?" 

He shook his head. As he stood, he jabbed his thumb over his shoulder and opened his mouth, ready to make an excuse to leave. 

"You were ready to use the torture curse on me." She followed suit and got to her feet.

His arms fell to his side. His shoulders dropped. "With the intention of teaching you to block it." 

His eyes were inky in the dim kitchen light. He kept them locked on hers, daring her to submit, to go back to practicing the spells in _Standard Book of Spells Grade 1_. But she only lifted her chin higher. "You said I had no idea what it's like living in Voldemort's world." Her chest contracted, and against her better judgment, she ignored the escape route that Draco had offered her. "Show me." 

His resolve crumbled to dust behind his eyes. He took a step forward, and she took a step back, like magnets of the same polarity. With a slight nod, he opened his mouth. Hermione knew fully well that he didn't need to speak the incantation in order to perform the spell, but she couldn't deny the comfort she found in the small warning. 

" _Imperio."_

Her control slipped away like water trickling through her fingers. The edges of her vision blurred, and all she could see was Draco. 

"Sit down," Draco said. Through her hazy state, he sounded like he was underwater. 

_Sit down,_ his voice echoed in the back of her mind. _Sit down._

She fell into the chair, stiff as a marionette, her head a million miles away. A wave of pleasure coursed through her, permeating her veins, seeping through her pores. Her skin seemed to warm, enveloped in the protection of someone else's control. There was no need to think, or to decide. The choice and its consequences were no longer hers. Draco pulled the strings, and that was the most beautiful, wonderful thing. 

As quickly as it set on, the mirage shattered. Hermione blinked. For a long, terrible moment, she found herself wishing he'd put the curse back on her. Under her own control, her limbs felt heavy. She struggled to her feet and stumbled away from the table, away from Draco. He didn't seem to notice. 

For the first time, Hermione thought she might have understood him and his reluctance to overturn their situation, no matter how fraught it became. Life would be so easy with someone else at the helm. 

"Is that how Voldemort-" 

"No." Draco shook his head, so swift to defend Voldemort's methods. "Of course not. But he doesn't need to, does he?" 

She lifted one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. "I imagine it would make everything easier. Less chance of rebellion." 

A soft, bitter smirk played at the corners of Draco's mouth. "He doesn't want easy. He wants to play the game."

"The game," Hermione repeated, a blank look on her face. 

Pressing his knuckles into the edge of the table, Draco cleared his throat and lowered his voice. "He forces us to make a choice: our freedom in exchange for his protection. It's no fun for him if it isn't a painful decision." 

Hermione's hands trembled as she struggled to regain control over her body. Draco watched with renewed interest as she wrung her hands and jogged her knee. 

"It's the best feeling in the world, isn't it?" he asked, without a trace of pity or amusement. "Until it all comes crashing down."

Hermione sucked in a breath, forcing her limbs to still. She folded her hands behind her back, gripping each elbow with the opposite hand. "It's intoxicating," she whispered. Guilt hung like a heavy chain around her neck. How many others had lost their minds, their bodies, their autonomy to Voldemort, indefinitely? 

Her freedom was something to be protected, not tossed away at the first chance she had.

She returned to her seat beside Draco. Somehow, knowing he felt the same way made it easier to stomach the sight of him. Bruise-like shadows blossomed beneath his eyes. He pressed his pale, thin lips together. Even in the baggy hoodie he wore, he looked skinnier than he did when she first met him. 

"There's this unique kind of torture in hurting someone and knowing you're powerless against it," he said. Hermione's breath caught in her throat. "There's also safety in it. "

She studied her hands as she flexed her fingers, doubting everything she knew, every conviction she had. How could she ever be positive that her actions were her own, that her thoughts belonged to her? She could be powerless, a foreigner to her own body, and she wouldn't know it until it was far too late. "If someone else is in control, then there's always someone else to blame, and someone else to clean up the mess," she whispered, her voice fracturing. 

Draco nodded. "That's why humans all cling so desperately to their religions."

"I'm not religious."

"You are. Humans are inherently religious creatures. Whether it's God, or money, or sex, or knowledge, or freedom—" he cast a sideways glance in her direction— "we all worship something. And then we hope beyond all hope that if we serve it well, it will be enough to save us."

Hermione was silent for a moment, waiting for him to elaborate. When he didn't, she asked, "What about you?" 

His eyes flickered to the hallway, toward Blaise and Theo's bedrooms. The change in his focus was so quick, almost imperceptible. "Myself." 

She scoffed and trained her eyes on her ragged fingernails. "I suppose I should have seen that coming." 

His head rolled to one side as he pulled one knee to his chest. "It's not like that. 

She didn't bother to contradict him again, though she suspected he wasn't being entirely truthful. Draco believed in his abilities; he'd taken on the responsibility of protecting his friends, but that didn't start or end with him. In order to fulfill his self-appointed duty, he had to appease one man. For now, the only god that Draco served was Voldemort. 

He'd never admit that to her. He probably hadn't yet admitted it to himself. 

Her final, unspoken question lodged itself between her teeth. She bit down. If she felt like that after obeying such a simple command as _sit,_ how would it feel if Voldemort ordered him to kill or torture someone? 

"Are you feeling like yourself again?" he asked. 

The dull, hollow ache hadn't faded from her chest, but she nodded anyway. With a spell like that looming at the forefront of her consciousness, she wasn't sure she'd ever feel like herself again. Not when she knew how simple it would be for someone to strip her of all her multitudes.

Draco mirrored her gesture and placed both feet back on the floor, preparing to leave her. "With any luck, you'll never have that curse performed on you again."

"You know how to resist it." He paused for half a heartbeat, and then sat back. 

"I do." He eyed her warily, running his finger around the coffee ring in front of him. "Most of the time I wish I didn't." 

She realized she was leaning forward a little bit too eagerly, and forced herself to sit back, pressing the small of her back flat against the back of the chair. "Will you teach me? 

Draco looked as uncomfortable as she felt. "It would honestly be a waste of time. As I said, if Voldemort really wants you to do something, he has more interesting ways of making you obey him." 

"Voldemort's not the only one I need to worry about though, is he?" 

Draco's fingers froze. Hermione stared at his face unabashedly, searching for any kind of information in the curve of his lips, in the set of his jaw. He blinked once, twice, three times, as he analyzed her words, but otherwise, his face remained a perfect mask. As always. 

Hermione pushed further. "You don't think I'm powerful enough?" She raised a challenging eyebrow, masking a world of insecurities that hid just below the surface.

Aburptly, Draco removed his hands from the table and folded them in his lap, out of sight. "You know that's not what I think." Her shoulders and her defenses dropped. Draco continued, not meeting her eye. "You could be great, if you wanted to be."

"I don't," she said, quick to deny him. She wasn't sure whether she should smile at the compliment or glare at him for making such an assumption. "Not if being great comes at the expense of being good."

"It doesn't have to." 

"It usually does." 

Draco looked up at her from beneath his eyelashes. "If this war is going to end anytime soon, we need someone who's both." 

Guilt and doubt clawed up her throat, sinking their icy talons into her chest. "I'm not either," she said and vehemently shook her head. Her curls freed themselves from her loose plait as she moved. "Right now, my only goal is to survive."

An impatient noise unleashed itself from the back of Draco's throat. "Then what was with all the bullshit about rebelling against Voldemort and doing the right thing?" 

She flinched at her own words being thrown back in her face. "That's different."

"Is it?"

"Yes, it is!" She jogged her knee again. "A month ago I was just a girl in Hampstead, trying to build a resume before university and now-" 

"Why do you even want to go to university, anyway?" 

Hermione clenched her jaw. "For entirely selfish reasons. I want to get a degree so I can make good money and provide for myself and my family." 

He shrugged and placed his hands back on the table, leaning over them. "You were in the papers last week. It said you work at a nonprofit, tutoring disadvantaged schoolchildren." 

Hermione's jaw softened. Draco's eyes steeled. 

"You're not selfish. Don't pretend to be." 

"I want to be." 

"There's a girl who works at my father's house. Our age, maybe a little younger."

"Don't do this to me," she begged. 

"Her name's Alice. She told me she has a younger brother, whom she might never see again."

Her eyes widened. The name he'd given Greyback. A weight fell onto Hermione's chest. Or maybe it had been there all along and she had just been ignoring it. 

"There are others, and there will be more. If you can prevent even a few unnecessary deaths or family separations, why don't you want to try?" 

"It's not fair of you to pin this all on me." She twirled the roots of her hair around her fists."I can't."

"You can," he said emphatically. "I know you can." 

She exhaled. Draco was steadfast. An unrelenting storm. "Most of the powerful spells I've done have been by accident." 

"You're excellent at healing spells. You said so yourself," he said, a hint of bitter sarcasm in his tone. Hermione didn't smile. "You can learn to harness your power. I'll help you." 

If Draco was a storm, she was a wildfire. 

"Most importantly" he continued, "you have nothing to lose. No family. No home. No Tithe." 

"Nothing in the Wizarding World," she corrected him. "If the Death Eaters ever found out my name, they can find my family, my friends, they'd kill them." She paused to look at him, wondering the reason for his fatigue. "You're not the only one who has people to protect." 

He pondered her words, taking his time. Her time and was nothing more than a commodity to him. And why shouldn't it be? She had nothing but time and nowhere else to be. As he submitted them to silence, she repeated her mantra in her mind. 

_I am a witch._

_They want to kill me._

_I will not let them._

"The more you have to lose, the more you have to gain," Draco finally spoke. 

Hermione wasn't quite sure she believed that. "A few weeks ago you were offering to kill me," she reminded him. "What changed?"

"Very little on my end."

The door was shoved open before Hermione could ask any further questions, or risk further beratement. Theo strode through the kitchen with long, confident strides. 

"Good evening," he said, offering the pair of them a salute. 

Draco cleared his throat and leaned back in his chair, slinging one ankle around the opposite knee. "Were you at St. Mungo's?"

"Nope, I was out shopping. Happy Friday." Theo set his bag on the counter and extracted a fifth of vodka, along with a smaller bottle of whisky. "And then I went to Pansy's. She's worried about you, by the way. Said you nearly fainted before you hauled ass out of the Manor yesterday." 

Draco frowned. "She is exaggerating, per usual." 

Theo shrugged. Hermione looked on with envy as he summoned a glass and filled it with water from the tip of his wand. Magic came to Theo, Blaise, and Draco as easily as breathing. Second nature, without a second thought. As for Hermione, it either occurred without her permission, or she overthought every step. There was no equilibrium. 

"What did you tell her?" Draco asked. 

"That it's none of her business."

"Good." His gaze returned to his folded hands. 

Theo drained the glass, cleaned it with a wave of his wand, and set it back on the shelf. "Is it any of mine?" 

Draco's frown deepened as he chewed on the inside of his cheek. After a long silence, he said, "Let's talk about it later." 

Theo drew a long breath and tucked his hands in his pockets. "If it's about one of us-"

"The less you all know, the better-"

"The better for whom?" Theo asked, his eyebrows pulled together. His eyes flashed, but his voice flatlined. His feet remained planted firmly on the floor, with his head square on his shoulders. "It's not better for any of us, and it's certainly not better for you." 

Draco cleared his throat. His gaze returned to his lap. "Let's talk about it later," he repeated. 

Theo's stare lingered on Draco for another moment, before he dragged it to Hermione. She shrugged. If Theo was looking for someone with whom to commiserate, Hermione would not suffice. _He never tells me anything._

"Fine," he said, and spun on his heel with a huff. 

At the sound of the click of his bedroom door, Draco opened his mouth. Hermione spoke before he could. "Is one of them in danger?"

"They're always in danger."

"What about you?"

"I'm starting to think I might be invincible." He sighed. A sad smile melted onto his lips. "And that's the worst fate of them all."

Her eyes never moved from the empty threshold. _The grass is always greener._ "You're wrong about me," she said, her voice hardly above a whisper. "I have more to lose than you think." 

His expression darkened inexplicably. "That doesn't change the fact that I-" He stopped and rubbed his thumb across his jaw. "If you only knew-" 

Her eyes narrowed to slits as she swallowed. "What is that supposed to mean?"

He twisted his mouth, as if trying to force himself to swallow his words. They came out anyway. "Your-" He cut himself off and ran his tongue over his top lip.

Hermione paused. Her fingers curled over the edge of the table. She closed her eyes, feeling as if her brain were made of cotton. "My what?" Her voice splintered. It didn't matter. The damage had been done. 

Draco cleared his throat and shoved his chair back from the table. It skidded across the wooden floor, hitting the back wall. "Nothing. Never mind." 

"Wait-" she said, but he had stopped listening. Without another word, he exited the kitchen, leaving Hermione alone. 

She scowled at the empty chair where Draco had sat. Her fingertips had gone numb, and her mouth flooded with the metallic, bitter taste of blood and betrayal. 

Something was wrong. And Draco was lying about it to all of them. 


	17. the dahlia

Hermione didn't see Draco for three days. Occasionally, she heard a _crack_ from his bedroom, signifying his Apparition in and out of the apartment. Two days ago, she heard him and Blaise arguing in the kitchen at three in the morning, and the previous morning, a pretty brunette in a short red dress slunk out of his bedroom while Hermione ate her breakfast. Other than that, it was as if Draco no longer lived in the apartment.

She wished she could say his absence satisfied her. Rather, the shards of broken glass on which she seemed to walk only grew sharper, and, unsure of when Draco would make his next appearance, Hermione only grew more skittish. _Better the devil you can see than the devil you can't._

The one— and only— upside to his avoidant behavior was that she was able to sit by the open kitchen window and practice her spells, instead of being locked in Theo's narrow bedroom. That Tuesday morning, after a long weekend of alternating between learning healing spells with Theo and dueling with Blaise, she sat barefoot and cross-legged on the kitchen counter. A few months ago, she would have been appalled at her own behavior: _How disgusting of her to put her bare feet on the same surface that she prepared her food?_ But a discussion with Theo about the many uses of the Scouring Charm had changed her perspective on more than one thing.

Namely, her feet were most definitely _not_ the most disgusting thing to grace the surface of the kitchen counter.

Hermione savored the feeling of the rare January sun on her face and the fresh morning air in her lungs as she lit and extinguished her wand. She kept one eye on the road below her; the square opposite the flat remained empty this early, save for Blaise, who jogged past the window every six minutes and twenty seconds, like clockwork.

" _Lumos_ ," she whispered. The wand obeyed. _Nox,_ she thought. The light ceased. She sat up a little straighter and lifted her chin. _Nox_ was the only wordless spell she could consistently cast, but pride overwhelmed her each time she successfully performed, especially after Theo informed her that most Hogwarts students couldn't do any wordless magic until their sixth or seventh years. 

A breeze came through the window; Hermione shivered and rubbed her upper arms. She glanced out the window just in time to see Blaise run past for the fourth time, marking the start of his final lap. Six minutes and twenty seconds until he returned. Six minutes and twenty seconds for Hermione to practice the Fire-Making Charm. Before she could talk herself out of the idea, she summoned a tattered dishrag from the kitchen island.

She ran the incantation over in her head as she lifted the rag over the kitchen sink. She'd been turning the word over and over in her mind all weekend as she worked up the courage to perform the spell. And there it was: her courage as tangible as the wood in her hand, as the fire in her veins. 

" _Incendio,_ " she said, expecting a rush of warmth to heat her bare legs. The rag did not ignite. Hermione swallowed a groan. She did not spend seventy-two hours agonizing over that goddamn spell only for it _not_ to work. " _Incendio!_ " she said again. The dishrag hung limp between her fingers; the wand did not produce a single spark. She tapped it against the sink in a vain attempt to jar its powers, tightened her grip, and tried one final time. " _Incendio_."

Rather than bursting into flames, the dishrag grew. And grew. And grew. Hermione's jaw dropped as she let go of the rag. "You're kidding me." Even after it left her clutches, the corners of the rag continued to expand. Hermione wracked her brain for the counter-spell. _Reducto?_ No, that was a dueling spell. _Reducio._ Yes, _Reducio_. The rag now filled the entirety of the sink, spilling out onto the counter. She hesitated to lift her wand. One spell had already gone terribly wrong; did she want to risk trying a different one? She glanced out the window. Blaise was nowhere to be seen. The rag continued to grow.

The idea of Blaise walking through the front door to find her struggling to contain this simple spell compelled her to action. " _Reduc_ -"

"Okay. That's enough," Draco said from where he lurked like a shadow at the entrance to the kitchen. He snapped his fingers. Hermione's wand flew from her hand and landed in the sink, atop the dishrag that had expanded to the size of a king-sized bedsheet. 

She sighed and leaned her head against the wall. She draped the rag over her legs like a blanket. Draco waved his hand, and it stopped growing. "How long have you been there?"

"Long enough," he said.

"Right." She forced out a laugh and folded her hands in her lap. "Any tips?"

"Couldn't think of anything a little bit more subtle than _Incendio_?" he asked, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorframe. "Or are you just a pyro?"

Hermione stretched her arms above her head. Her shirt lifted, revealing a thin stretch of skin below her navel. "Why? Are you scared?"

He scoffed as she retrieved the wand from the sink. "Of that pathetic thing? Not a chance."

She frowned at it. It wasn't the longest or prettiest, but it worked well enough most of the time. _Pure-bloods searched for superiority in the strangest places_. "Theo gave it to me."

"That doesn't mean you have to keep it," he said and pushed off from the wall. He jerked his chin toward his bedroom. "Come with me."

She glanced out the window to catch the final stretch of Blaise's run as he jogged up the steps to the apartment. She slid down from the counter and followed Draco down the hallway. The last thing she wanted to do was explain the dishrag.

When the bedroom door was closed safely behind them, Draco opened one of his desk drawers to reveal a stash of wands. _Seven_ , Hermione counted. 

He picked one up, seemingly arbitrarily, and handed it to her. "How's this?" 

She stared at it for a moment and rolled the smooth wood between her calloused fingers. "This one's nice," she said, hating how stilted her voice sounded.

Draco cleared his throat. "Do a _spell,_ " he ordered, rolling his eyes. 

_Of course_. " _Lumos_ ," she said. A faint light briefly emerged at the wand's tip, barely visible in the daylight, before it sputtered out. "The other one worked better."

"Clearly," Draco hummed and took it back. "Temperamental things, wands," he said. "I'm surprised the one Theo gave you works for you as well as it did, considering you never claimed its loyalty."

She narrowed her eyes at the wand in his hand. "You speak as though they're sentient."

He shrugged. "Sentience is not a dichotomy." 

Hermione grunted at that. She wondered where he believed Muggle-borns fell on that spectrum.

He passed another, slightly shorter wand her way. As soon as she touched it, it flew out of her hand and landed on his pillow. She glared at Draco.

"I didn't do that, I swear." He choked back a laugh and summoned it back to him. "Phoenix feather doesn't seem to agree with you." He plucked it out of her hand and shoved it back in the drawer. "Yew's no good. Hawthorne, maybe," he muttered and slammed the door shut. Without picking up his wand, a small box slid onto the floor from under his bed. He knelt beside it and lifted the lid. This one contained far more than seven wands, all thrown in haphazardly.

"You have _more?_ " she asked, raking her fingers through her hair. "We can just leave well enough alone. Theo's wand is fine."

"You won't be saying that if you're ever in a situation where you need to defend yourself." 

Hermione clenched her fingers around the hem of her t-shirt, her throat bobbing as she swallowed. "Do you think-"

"Try one of these," Draco said, gesturing to a cluster of wands made of dark wood. 

She suppressed a sigh, picking up a long, red wand. As soon as her hand settled around it, a jet of red light flew out the end.

"Fucking hell." Draco let out a long string of curses as he dodged the curse, and snatched the wand back. "Not that one. Much too long." He placed it in the discard pile and shuffled through the box, expertly sorting them by length and type of wood. 

"You'd think at least one of them would do," she muttered. "When you said you had a stash, I thought that meant five or six, not fifty-something."

"Forty-six," he corrected. "Perks of the job." He turned the box on its side, allowing the contents to slip out. "Dragon heartstring maybe," he mused to himself.

Hermione's eyes widened _. Dragons?_

"Here." He handed her a thick, dark wand, with runes etched up the side.

She turned it over in her hands. "What do they mean?" she asked, running her finger over one of the etchings.

"Protection runes," he said impatiently. "I doubt they work, though. Try it out."

This wand was by far the heaviest of all the wands she'd tried, causing a strain on her wrist as she cast _Lumos._ Well, _attempted_ to cast _Lumos._ No light emerged from the tip of the wand. She tried again, to the same result.

"Defective wand?" she asked, handing it back to him.

His expression gave nothing away as he wordlessly lit the wand, dousing them both in a brief flash of warm, yellow light. Hermione lifted her hand to her cheek in a feeble attempt to cover the flush she was sure was creeping up her face, but Draco wasn't even looking at her. "Now we're getting somewhere," he said as he continued to rummage through the box. "I know I have one..."

Hermione lifted herself on her toes, wondering if he had any other boxes in his bedroom or throughout the apartment. "Why _do_ you have so many, anyway?"

He leaned away. "Take a wild guess," he said, gesturing to the piles of wands at their feet. Before Hermione could speak, he said, "Ah, there it is." He summoned a shorter, dark wand with elaborate coils wrapped around the handle and passed it to Hermione.

" _Lumos,_ " she said. The wand lit up. " _Nox._ " She lifted her eyebrows as she looked at Draco expectantly. "It works."

He frowned and stood. Hermione took a step back, but he gripped her wrist and wrapped his hand around hers. She began to pull away when he said, "Just do it again." 

The hairs on her arm stood at attention as the space between his cool, pale skin and hers disappeared. " _Lumos_ ," she breathed. His hand flexed over hers. Hermione dropped the spell without another word. "Feel anything?"

Draco shook his head. "Nothing." With a victorious smirk, he released her hand. "Call me Garrick Ollivander. That solves one of our problems."

Hermione blinked. "I don't understand."

"Dragon heartstring and vine." He pried the wand from her curled fingers. "It's one of the more powerful combinations, which means it requires more magic than the cherry wood one you've been using. Less chance of spillover, too, so in theory, the more you use this wand, the quicker your excess power will drain, for lack of a better word, and you won't be throwing around unintentional Tickling Charms anymore."

"You were impressed by my wandless magic," she said with a huff, reaching to snatch the wand back.

One corner of Draco's mouth lifted as he pulled the wand out of her reach. "Yes, but there's a balance between being able to perform wandless magic and being a fire hazard." Hermione cringed. "Anyway, it's just a theory. We'll see how it goes."

"A balance," she repeated.

Draco tilted his head, still examining the wand. "An ass for every chair; a wand for every witch." He handed the wand back to her and took a seat at his desk. "Congratulations." 

She lit the tip of the wand again, wordlessly this time. "Strange, isn't it? That wands are so fickle. Wizards have so much power, but it's all bound to a single piece of wood. Losing it is the equivalent of losing your power."

"In your case, I wouldn't worry about that," Draco said. _Touche._ "With enough practice, a wizard can bend any wand to their will. Some wands are just more compliant than others. That one never really liked me much." Hermione froze, but he continued to contemplate aloud. "Pity, really; it's a nice wand, but I'm glad it'll get some use somehow." 

She held her hand out flat and let the wand rest on top of it, recalling something Draco had said a week and a half ago. _It's_ technically _mine. There are ways to gain a wand's allegiance._ Her frown deepened. "Draco, whose wand is this?"

His hesitant silence made her stomach fold over itself. "It's yours."

"It's not—" she whispered, shaking her head. "Please tell me you didn't..."

"It's yours, Granger," he said again, emphatically.

"But how did _you_ get it?" she asked, gripping the edge of his duvet with one hand and the wand with her other. Draco flinched but quickly smoothed his features. She felt her magic collect at the tips of her fingers, threatening to spill out. She flexed her fingers and let the wand drop onto his bed.

"It's customary to claim a token," he said slowly, his voice low and even. Hermione closed her eyes as her breath caught in her throat. _Forty-six wands._ Forty-six lives. "I figured this would be more useful than a box of fingers. Less macabre, no?"

She sank onto his bed, staring at the vine branch beside her. She blinked, and the image of Draco wrenching it out of another witch's hand before clamping a collar around her throat flashed behind her eyelids. In another life, that witch might have been Hermione.

_Forty-six._

The start of a migraine took root between her ears. She shoved the wand away from her. "I think I need to go lie down." After a moment of stillness, she nodded her head, reaffirming her decision, and got to her feet. As she stumbled toward the door, she banged her hip against the foot of his bed and let out a yelp. 

Draco summoned the wand and held it out, blocking her exit. "At least keep this." He stood and brushed non-existent dust from his trousers. The piles of wands returned themselves to the box, which slid itself back underneath Draco's bed.

She handed it back to him and shoved him away. "I'll keep the old one." Her voice splintered at the end of her sentence. 

"Granger, wait-"

The sound of his voice only made her lurch forward. She twisted the handle, only for the door to slam shut in her face. She glanced over her shoulder to see Draco tucking his own wand back in this pocket. She wrapped her fingers over the doorknob again and pushed her weight into the door, but it didn't budge. Her shoulders hunched as the weight of Draco's proximity fell over her. His breath hitched as she tensed. "Please, Draco. I'm tired," she said, keeping her eyes on the door. 

He grabbed her elbow and gently turned her to face him, but he didn't speak.

"How could you ask me to fight Voldemort for you, when you're out there killing people like me?" she asked. His grip tightened on her elbow. 

She held her breath, waiting for him to deny it; expecting him to justify it; hoping he would lie to her. He pressed his lips into a thin line; a barrier against any transient comfort he could offer.

She reached up and peeled his fingers off of her skin. "I won't be a part of your crusade," she whispered to his chest. A few weeks ago, she had been fed up with all of his secrets. Now, she almost wished she never knew about any of it. Ignorance was more than bliss. 

"I'm not asking you to be," he said, his voice quiet and warm and alien. "Take it." He pressed the wand into her palm. She pushed it against his chest, her fingers splayed and taut against the soft fabric of his Henley. Without removing his gaze from her eyes, he lifted his hand to hers and forced her fingers to close around it. "It chose you."

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Draco waited by the door until he heard the door to Theo's bedroom click shut; then, he made a beeline for his bed. He kept one particular notebook underneath his mattress, as if he needed to keep a record of all that he'd taken; as if he didn't remember every mission, every face, every wand.

He knelt next to the bed frame as he turned to the first page: _Vine and dragon heartstring, ten and three-quarter inches_. Draco's first field assignment.

The wand had belonged to a woman called Charlotte Walsh; a Muggle-born who had graduated Hogwarts two years before the Ordinance was passed. She'd managed to stay in hiding for almost twenty years by staying with a Muggle cousin in Northern Ireland. She met a man, got a Muggle job, had a child, and had nearly escaped Voldemort's clutches. 

But her daughter got sick, and Charlotte Walsh couldn't resist using magic to heal her. From there, it was all too easy for the Death Eaters to track her down. Lucius volunteered Draco. _If you want to join the Regiments upon graduation_ , Lucius had said, _you need to start training early. I won't have you entering your sixth year without any tokens._ So, while Dolohov killed her husband and child, Draco delivered Charlotte Walsh to Voldemort, claimed her wand, and then sent her off to Hogwarts to be used as a practice target for the Cruciatus Curse.

Like Draco had always said: It was always altruism that got humans into trouble.

With a stroke of his quill, he carefully blotted out Charlotte Walsh's name and replaced it with Hermione Granger's.


End file.
